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> LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. {' 



Chap. PS 17 73 
SAetf ...S.Q... 



% 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



FEATHERS 



A MOULTING MUSE 



HENRY J. SARGENT, 




RESIDUARY LEGATEE OF THE LATE "WALTER 
ANONYM." 






" Various, that the mind 
Of desultory man, studious of change 
And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. 



BOSTON: 
CKOSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY. 

Ill WASHINGTON STREET. 

1854. 






7$ 2>7 r n 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
Crosby, Nichols, and Company, 
the Clerk's Ofiice of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF AND COMPANY, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 







CONTENTS 



PREFATORY 1 

DEDICATORY. — TO MY WIFE 4 

"Teypacpa o yey pacpa.^ — explanatory .. . 6 

THE RUINS OF PALENQUE .10 

A FEW MORE LEFT 26 

PAST AWAY ! 29 

A SOLILOQUY 32 

SONNET TO .35 

SOUP ! 37 

SONG 41 

SONNET TO ......... 43 



CONTENTS. 



INSPIRATION 45 

TRIUNE EPIGRAM 49 

TO A VENERABLE HURDY-GURDY . . . .50 

JENNY LIND'S GREETING TO AMERICA ... 54 

SONNET 56 

THE PRAYER OP THE PRAIRIE-FLOWER ... 58 

SHADOWS 62 

SONNET TO 65 

ROMANZA 67 

THE FESTIVAL OP TEARS 72 

SONNET TO NOTHING .75 

TO THE BOBOLINK 77 

TO . A CAROL 81 

THE LILY'S WOOING 84 

SONNET. — OCEAN TWILIGHT 92 

to the evening star 94 

sonnet to the div'l 98 

lines suggested by the return of the atlantic, 

supposed to have been lost . . . .100 

the serenade 103 

"god save the commonwealth!" . . . .105 

the pilot 's there ! 107 

lines to an ^olian harp in my window . .110 



CONTENTS. 


V 


MISS SNOW TO HER PERSECUTORS . 


113 


TO BOSIO 


. 117 


SONNET. — SUMMER RAIN .... 


121 


SEPARATION - 


. 123 


THE FAIRY'S INVOCATION .... 


126 


A PROVERB AMENDED 


. 130 




132 




APRIL 


. 135 






SONNET 


. 144 




146 





LOVE IS THE LIGHTEST 


. 148 




150 


ART THOU READY'? . . . . . 


. 151 


DREAMS 


155 




. 159 




JEALOUSY 




THE WARNING 


. 164 


EGOTISM OF THE LETTER R 


166 


APOTHEOSIS 


. 169 




172 


WAKE FROM THY SLUMBERS ! 


. 178 


EPIGRAM 


180 



CONTENTS. 



THE GORED HUNTER 182 

TO 191 

TO MY STEEL PEN 193 

STARS AND FLOWERS 196 

SONNET TO 201 

THE FIRST FLY, — AND THE MORAL . . . 203 

THE LOVER TO HIS BOUQUET 206 

GENTLY ! GENTLY ! 209 

LINES ON BRACKETT'S GROUP, " THE SHIPWRECKED 

MOTHER AND CHILD" 211 

WHAT 'S FAME 1 ? 213 

ARE YOU A "CONNOISSEUR" IN LOVE? . . . 216 

THE CHALLENGE 219 

A VALENTINE 221 

REVERIES 224 

"GOD SAVE THE COMMONWEALTH 1 ." — NO. II. . 227 

I DREAMED THAT I WAS YOUNG AGAIN ! . . . 230 

THE SEWING-BIRD TO HIS TYRANT .... 234 

PROGRESS. — A VISION 237 

SONNET. — TO ZEPHYRUS 240 

THE BIRTH OF MUSIC . 242 

" ERIN GO BRAGH ! " 246 

SONNET. — THOUGHT 250 



CONTENTS. Vll 



TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY . . . 252 

SONNET TO THE MOON ....... 255 

THE TRUE CREED 257 

A THOUGHT OR TWO 261 

" I STILL LIVE ! " 264 

VALE 268 



PREFATORY. 



The parent on his new-born heir 
Doth look with love-enkindled eyes ; 

Blinded, he finds attraction where 
The world would but despise. 

Some ray of unreflected light, 
Which other eyes may never see, 

To him appears a herald bright 
Of that which is to be. 

1 



PREFATORY. 



Thus look I on this child of rhyme, 
Though insignificant, mayhap, 

The offspring between thought and time, 
Rocked in my mental lap. 

It may contain full many a line 

The critic stern would wish to blot ; 

His soul has never entered mine, — 
I see what he does not ! 

Each is to me a register, 

Wherein the smile and tear, 
The sun and shadow of my thought, 

Suggestively appear. 

Though valueless to him they seem, 
As valueless they are, no doubt, 

He cannot rob me of the dream 
Which shut the cold world out. 



PREFATORY. 



Each was a free-will offering 

To the Thalia of the hour, 
Who fanned to life, with restless wing, 

The intellectual power. 

I 've called them to my fold again, 

To prove to them they 're not forsaken, 

To reunite the broken chain 
Whence they were taken. 



DEDICATORY. 



TO MY WIFE, 



Dear Maggie, come here ! Sit thee down by 
my side, 
I need a protector, a patron, a friend ! 
My boat is adrift on a critical tide, 

And Heaven only knows how the voyage 
may end. 

* My old friend, " Walter Anonym," would have dedicated 
this little book " To the Public," not having, I suppose, any 
wife of his own. He was very easily persuaded (just previous 
to his death), however, of the absurdity of his proposition, upon 
my representation that it would be deemed by the printer and 
publisher a most satirical compliment. — H. J. S. 



DEDICATORY. 



Or, in plain, prosy English, my desperate Muse 
Would dare, with your sanction, to wander 
in rhyme. 
Don't laugh, — I'm in earnest ! You cannot 
refuse 
To loan me your altar a very short time. 



On that altar unbribed, for your lot is mine own, 

And one fate, as one faith, doth our destiny 

prove, 

Are these garlands of fancy confidingly thrown, 

Not asking your favor, but speaking my 

love. 



Teypa<fia b yeypacpa." 



EXPLANATORY. 



I might have taken loftier flights, 

As others have, alas! 
Who, soaring after Tragedy, 

Dropped headlong into Farce; — 

Might have translated foreign tongues, 

(With Dictionary's aid,) 
And thus have ranked proportionate 

With the pretence I made ; — 



Teypa(j)a o yeypa(j)a" 



Or might have walked, in 'broidered robe, 

Through mythologic grove, 
And given you the Christian names 

Of Goddesses above, 

Who wantonly have smiled on me, 

Or given me a pat ; 
From "Black well's" quaint "Mythology" 

I could have stolen that ; — 

Might have indited solid things, 

Read only by the shelves ; 
Arabic to the million, 

And dead letters to themselves; — 



Or goaded my ambition 
Info artificial rage, 

A scientific lunatic, 
Requiring no cage. 



M Teypa<fia 6 yeypa(f)aS 



I might have spurred old " Pegasus," 

The Epic stream to cross ; 
And, like my friend " Bellerophon," 

Have tumbled with my horse ; — 

Might have off-scissored my " moustache," 

Letting my hair grow long; 
A locomotive monument 

Of dithyrambic song. 

My weakest verse would have been puffed 

To pronoun I satiety, 
Had I but once the candle snuffed 

For the " Mutual A. Society." 

But I have travelled "mine ain gait," 

From all restriction free ; 
Trusting that I could bide my fate, 

Whate'er that fate might be. 



" Teypcxfia b yeypa(jia.' 



My mood it was to alternate, 
As you '11 perceive I 've done, 

A vibratory pendulum 
'Twixt sentiment and fun. 

Thus "Teypatpa b yeypacpa, 
(Excuse this classic bit,) 

Which means, if English you prefer, 
I 've written what I 've writ ! 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 



" In the interior of Central America have been discovered the ruins of an 
immense city, overgrown by a dense forest of trees ; in the clearing away 
of which large edifices have been brought to light, together with temples 
and palaces of hewn stone. 

11 Though in a state of great dilapidation, the rubbish has been cleared 
away from some of them, and their interior explored; exhibiting to the 
astonished beholder evidences of a nation once existing there, highly 
skilled in the Arts, and in a state of civilization far beyond anything that 
we have been led to believe of the Aborigines previous to the discovery by 
Columbus." — Dr. Ackerley's Correspondence. 



Mysterious record of relentless fate ! 

Vast mausoleum of a nation gone! 
Who shall thy wondrous history relate ? 

Who shall decipher thy sepulchral stone ? 



THE RUINS OF PALENQTJE. 11 

What was thy doom ? What the adventurous 
crime 
Which drew thee, powerless, in its fearful 
toils ? 
Hast thou thus slumbered since that earlier 
time, 
When the mad waters revelled in the spoils, 
And, to the muttering of the thunder's roll, 
Gigantic Ruin slaked his thirsty soul ? 

Deep in the womb of the cold, voiceless 
past, 
Alike unknown, unknowing, hast thou lain 
For centuries ! Spring breeze, and winter 
blast, 
Have tried to rouse thee from thy trance in 
vain. 
A world hath grown above thee ! heeding not 
That 'neath the beating of its busy tread, 



12 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

Lost to the present, by the past forgot, 

Lay a vast army of the pulseless dead ! 
Mortality a lesson sad may learn 
From the dank moss on thy neglected urn ! 

Dark relic of some unremembered age ! 

Vain the attempt thy history to trace. 
Oblivion throws her mantle o'er the page, 

Pointing for archives to thy burial-place ! 
The antiquarian trims his rusty lamp, 

To rove among thy palaces and fanes, 
Wiping with dainty hand the mould and damp 

(The only shroud around thy cold remains), 
No truth acquiring as he ploddeth on, 
Save that thou wast awhile, and thou art gone ! 

It is no dream. Ah no ! there was a day 
When here were life, hope, joy, and beauty. 
Where 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 13 

Thy ruins crumble now, the sun's glad ray- 
Hath sparkled brightly. Summer's soft, 
sweet air 

Hath breathed of love, to many a maiden fond. 
Art hath had being here! the sentient style 

Hath bid the silent marble to respond 

Unto its bidding ! And the block doth smile 

With such fair forms of loveliness and grace, 

That jealous Time would hide, but not efface. 

Above thee now the forest wide is spread ; 
Sad summer winds utter their soothing 
moan ; 
The tiny wild-flower nods above the dead, 

A painted satire on a prostrate throne ! 
Where now thy grandeur ? On the swelling 
surge 
Of years remembered comes no voice of 
thine; 



14 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

But the lone cricket chants his fitful dirge, 

The only laborer in this mortal mine, 
On some elaborate work of art astride, 
Chirping the requiem of the sons of pride. 

Thou mightst have slept unrecognized, un- 
known, 
Through the vast period of Time to be, 
"Writhing to hear a new world's smothered 
groan 
(Deep diapason to thine agony), 
Save that the touch of that anpmalous hand, 
Which slowly writes decay and doom on 
all, 
Had loosened from thy breast the earthy band 
Which held thee moveless in its mighty 
thrall, 
Unveiling, 'neath the dark, unconscious mould, 
The hidden history of the days of old. 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 15 

The plough of Time upturns the historic 
pall, 
'Neath which, invested in its garb of gloom, 
Deep mystery doth hold high Carnival 

With crumbling tenants of that splendid 
tomb. 
No footfall echoes in thy lonely street, — 
No light remaineth in thy banquet-hall. 
The insect creepeth with his noiseless feet, 

And the dew oozes from the creviced wall. 
Death's mantled reapers passed across the plain, 
Loading, with mortal sheaves, his groaning 
wain. 

Who can interpret of the Almighty mind 
The impulse? Who can comprehend the 
thought, 

Whose mere volition, chainless, unconfined, 
Resolves again to cold, unthinking naught 



16 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 



(Prompted by hate or mercy still the same 
The awful power) a sentient, vital world ? 

Its origin, its destiny, its name, 
Into the crucible of Chaos hurled, 

There to remain embalmed in mimic state, 

A nameless toy, down-thrown by reckless Fate. 

What a deep interest twines round thy decay! 

A melancholy grandeur ! Pale thought 
brings 
Suggestive feeling, with her pensile ray 

Silvering, with light subdued, dark, shadowy 
things ; 
Which, although insignificant they be 

Each in itself, yet each doth bear its part 
In swelling out that moral harmony 

Which vibrates ever in the human heart ; 
The more mysterious still the more inspiring 
That sublimation of the soul's desiring. 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 17 

Vainly we call on Memory to awake 

From her long slumber in the shrouded 
past; 
No ripple trembles on her placid lake ! 

Deep are the shadows on her mirror cast. 
No phantom hand shall touch, the silent lyre, 

Waking that tone illusory, though sweet, 
And, with the impulse of departed fire, 

Startle the echoes from their wild retreat ! 
Deep Silence stands, a sentinel sublime, 
Guarding the records of departed time ! 

The pensive bard may woo the Muse in vain, 

For lore historic to perfect his theme. 
New is the race which roves the unconscious 
plain, 
Sibyl nor prophet lives to explain the dream 
We would interpret. Dark, perpetual night 
Enfolds those unknown slumberers. Never 
2 



18 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

Shall earthly morning greet them with its 

light. 

To sense and time their eyes are closed for 
ever ! 
What was their errand ? what their destiny ? 
Predict from this, O sage, what thine may be ! 

The cool sophistic would philosophize 

Upon this handful of mysterious dust, 
(Throwing some portion of it in your eyes, 

That you may take his dictum upon trust,) 
Not as a serious " memento mori " 

(That were to him too common-sense and 
plain) : 
But, shrewdly reasoning " a posteriori," 

Resolve them to their elements again. 
As if God's marvels were, to him, a scroll, 
Which he, with hallowed fingers, might un- 
roll! 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 19 

Vain the attempt the Almighty's thought to 
learn, 
By scanning it through philosophic glass ; 
Or sifting the frail dust in mortal urn. 

Wisdom but whispers us, that " flesh is 
grass " ! 
Wisdom ! what is it ? proven, year by year, 

To be but vanity and idle boast. 
The word prophetic of the by-gone seer 

Is now the thesis for satiric toast ! 
'T would not be strange if all the wealth of 

sages 
Should be the laughing-stock of coming ages. 

Each age the credo of the last effaces ; 

A fossil city, starting from its grave, 
The landmarks of geology displaces. 

As, from the silvery beach, the in-flowing 
wave 



20 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

Blots the quaint sketches which the wave be- 
fore 
So cunningly had stamped, — a world, new- 
born, 
In-rolling upon Time's gray, silvery shore, 

Blots out all traces of an old world gone. 
Thus, after all, the sum of this earth's history 
Is this : An inference questioning a mystery ! 

Spite of all science, there will still remain 

To earth full many a secret all its own : 
Inscription mystic upon sculptured fane, 

By man unchronicled, to man unknown ; 
Quaint hieroglyphics, traced by cunning hands, 

Puzzling the research of the cunning mind, 
Unwritten in the legends of the lands, 

But to the archives of the dead confined. 
Brooding inquiry becomes insane, 
And, for relief, seeks the young world again ! 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 21 

Time's century-reapers, as they wander on, 

(Trolling some merry libel on the past,) 
Blot out our vaunted glories one by one ; 

Chanting " Time's noblest offspring is the 
last " ! 
A few weak struggles against certain fate 

(Our personal necessity) is all 
That we are sure of, in this curious state, 

Toil, and privation, and a dusty pall. 
And future records will but serve to show 
The same sad cycle of returning woe. 

Mother of sad reflection ! why may not 
The future destination of our plains 

Be similar to thine ? A burial spot 

For our neglected and unknown remains ? 

'T is a wild dream to dream; and yet we 
need 
No high-wrought fancy, nor prophetic ken 



22 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

To reason from analogy. We read 

Of a vast nation but that it has been ! 
And then its dark, brief history we close, 
Wrapt in the mantle of its deep repose. 

A world within a world ! Unfolding too, 

At every step, indisputable proof 
Of luxury and age ; startling the view 

With " golden Lares, and with frescoed 
roof," 
Gorgeous mementos of perfected art. 

Ay, but the question, " Perfected by whom ? " 
Throws back the current of the beating heart ; 

For who shall dare to argue with the tomb ? 
What a vain mockery all the toil and care, 
Lying in pompous desolation there ! 

How many legends of departed days 

Within the earth's cold bosom lie concealed, 



THE RUINS OF PALENQXJE. 23 

Hid from the busy Present's sordid gaze ! 

How many wondrous histories, unrevealed. 
We shudder as we ponder on the fact, 

That, rove where'er we will, on land or wave, 
Pale Death, before us, the whole way hath 
tracked. 

Each flower is rooted in some secret grave ; 
Each step of the proud ship, from zone to 

zone, 
Is o'er a pulseless heart, or bleaching bone. 

Cast up life's brief account. How foolish, vain, 
Viewed through the microscope which rea- 
son lends ! 
How many losses, and how little gain ! 

What vast exertions for what trifling ends ! 
Struggles ! for high Ambition's dazzling goal. 
Dreams! which are destined ever dreams to 
be. 



24 THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 

False aspirations ! fettering the soul, 

Yet claiming for themselves true liberty, 
Forgetting that in chains we wander here, 
Watching a promise floating on a tear ! 

Age after age has man in learning grown, 

Till like a giant in his might he stands ! 
Master of every nature but his own ; — 

Geographer of all but the few sands, 
Which, curiously attracted, act and bind 

The spirit in its cabinet of clay, 
Too often like a captive thing confined, 

Uncheered too often by one purer ray ; 
But left, all holier impulses withdrawn, 
The sceptic's plaything and the cold world's 



Record mysterious ! to the dark eclipse 

Which shrouds thy form investigation brings 



THE RUINS OF PALENQUE. 25 

No satisfactory apocalypse ; 
* But broodeth over thee with folded wings. 
Turns o'er each relic cautiously, to gain 

Some token through whose medium to find 
Thy lost connection with life's broken chain, 

Oblivion's rusty hinges to unbind. 
Her bark lies freightless on the dusky shore, 
And the lone cricket dirges, as before ! 



26 



A FEW MORE LEFT 



" A few more left ! " It 's always so ; 

Who ever saw the last ? 
You send home your umbrella, — 

You suppose the storm is past, — 
But when its in the hat-stand snug, 
Old Pluvius takes out the plug. 

Talk of the last ? There 's no such thing! 
There is no last. How can there be ? 



A FEW MORE LEFT. 27 

'T is but a fool's conjecturing. 

Where do you find Eternity, 
If you believe each passing hour 
Subtracted from our final dower ? 

" A few more left ! " Why, look at Blitz ! 

Ask him but for a small " bouquet," 
He '11 " knock the idea into fits," — 

Furnish you flowers full half a day, 
And cultivate them all, at that, 
In some old, worn-out beaver hat. 



" A few more left ? " Of course there are ; 

And will be, while the world goes on. 
Each year or two some new-born star 

Shines out from its celestial zone. 
A man must be of sense bereft 
Who thinks there can't be one more left. 



28 A FEW MORE LEFT. 

Although the bad predominate, 
And evil vaunteth over good, — 

Though Virtue oft is spurned by Fate, 
And fails to compass what it would, — 

Faith, smiling at Earth's treasures reft, 

Points upward to those " few more left " ! 



29 



PAST AWAY! 



" Past away ! " Mysterious meanings 

Those two words involve ; 
Life, and Death, and Destiny ! — 

More than man can solve. 
History, from her dusky archives, 

Vainly would essay 
More than that laconic record, 
" Past away ! " 



30 PAST AWAY. 



" Past away ! " The echo vibrates, 

Like a tolling bell, 
Where a mortal dwelt and perished. 

If in quiet dell, 
Or in cities grand with pride, — 

Here, or far away, — 
Still chime on that mournful duo, 
" Past away ! " 



Spring, with sweet reunion, comes, — 
Sunshine, bird, and flower ; 

Music, dearest gift of all, 
Woos the scented hour. 

Care has " gone a gypsying " ! 
Pleasure leads the day ! 

With the twilight comes that chime, 
" Past away ! " 



PAST AWAY. 31 



On the cheek of fading beauty, 
Sleeping with the rose, — 

Slowly stealing into notice, 
From their soft repose, — 

Visible, although in shadow, — 
Those same words appear, 

Like the calm, prophetic warning 
Of a seer. 

On the tomb of nations vanished, 

Sculptured clear and deep, — 
Through the mist and rime of ages, — 

Doth that record sleep. 
Howsoe'er enshrined in story, 

Or embalmed in song, 
With the psean and the triumph 

Steals that chime along, 

" Past away ! Past away! " 



32 



A SOLILOQUY. 

f 



'T is my last, last potato ! 

Yet calmly I stand, 
"With the firmness of Cato, 

My fork in my hand. 

Not one in the basket ! 

And is it then so ? 
With sorrow I ask it, 

Shall I eat thee, or no ? 



A SOLILOQUY. 33 



Poor, fated Chenango ! 
What feelings arise, 
As the tears trickle down 
From thy prominent eyes ! 

I '11 make one incision, 

There's no need to peel ye. 

'Twill let in the vision 
To judge if. ye 're mealy. 

How wholesome, how turfy, 
It smells through the mist! 

A genuine Murphy! 
O, who could resist ! 

If, in that blessed Eden, 

Potatoes had been 
Of fruits the forbidden, 

We still should have Sin. 



34 A SOLILOQUY. 



For who, in his senses, 
Would long be in doubt, 

'Twixt Earth with potatoes, 
Or Eden without! 



35 



SONNET TO 



" I wish — O, how I wish we ne'er had met ! " 
Sighing you whispered me at our last meet- 
ing. 
Confess to me, Love's Priest, that you regret 
Each sad " good bye " is not a tender meet- 
ing. 
The wish is negative for what is gone. 
Fond Wish is Hope's young sister, 
ever straying 
After some dream delicious farther on, 
With sweet anticipation idly playing. 



36 SONNET TO 



The tree would die ; the flower would droop 
and fade, 
1 Neath the warm influence of perpetual noon ! 
Mingled with sunshine there must be some 
shade ; 
Were there no light, then there would be no 
moon. 
Earth were too much like heaven, dear girl, 
with you, 
Unless two sad " good byes " embraced each 
" how d 'ye do ? " 



37 



SOU P! 



Let others mount their Pegasus 

And fly to worlds afar, 
Inditing pensive sonnet 

By the light of some young star. 

Mine the task— (" Thalia ave! " 
From thy proud eyrie stoop, 

Aid me! in this mine "onus grave n ] 
To pen an ode to Soup ! 



38 . soup ! 



First comes majestic Turtle ! 

(How I wish I had a bowl !) 
Like a symphony, — all fragments, — 

Blending in a perfect whole ! 

Talk to me of California ! 

Here we have whole spheres of gold. 
Lighting up those soft green islands, 

Wherein sleep, as I 've been told, 

Souls of faded Aldermen ! 

And yet who would mind the jeer, 
If he too could dine on Turtle 

Fifty-two times in a year, — 

And enjoy the hope poetic, 

That he too may rest in peace, 

In some gastronomic island, 
Near the classic soil of Greece? 



soup ! 39 

There 's Julian! Macaroni! Brown! 

Voluptuous Ox-tail too ! 
My hungry Muse would taste them all, 

But that she may not do. 

Chicken ! pale, pensive Chicken ! 

Pregnant with sad ideas, — 
Croup, whooping-cough, and measles, 

Nurses, castor-oil, and tears, — 

Upon whose calm, unruffled breast 

No floating thing is seen, 
All whose disturbing causes rest 

Submerged in the tureen ! 

To thee, pale Chicken ! shall be given 

The tribute of this lay ; 
Thou unassuming, gentle friend 

Of my young, brothy day. 



40 soup 



True to the last! consistent still ! 

Pure, as when first I knew thee, 
No Soup equivocal art thou, — 

An infant may see through thee ! 

O, may my right spoon bend and break, 
When I shall prize thee not ; 

And may I close thy heavy lid 
Whene'er thou " goest to Pot " ! 



41 



SONG 



Lady! when the Night-breeze, waking, 

Leaves her island in the sea, 
And the Star of Eve, new-risen, 

"Whispers me of heaven and thee, — 

Think upon those glad hours banished 

With the hopes of earlier years, 
Brilliant, even while they vanished, 

Precious now, though viewed through tears ! 



42 



SONG. 



Fare thee well ! Thou mayst not listen 
To a sad refrain like mine, — 

To a Song whose inspiration 

Lives but in that glance of thine. 

Still, within my heart enfolded, 
Dwells the memory enshrined 

Of those blissful days departed, 
With the present sadly twined. 

Fare thee well ! Although thine altar 
Hold from me no offering now, 

Save Hope's faded, scentless garlands 
Clustering round thy broken vow, — 

Memory, fondly still, re-echoes 
The glad music it hath known ; 

As the harp of evening vibrates 

When the breeze hath wandered on. 



43 



S ONNET TO 



\ 



Nestle still closer to me, Genevieve, 

Until thy heart's pulsation seems to be 
Trembling in mine ; as doth the Star of Eve 
Within the breast of the unquiet Sea. 

Far down, among the Ocean's swaying 
flowers, 
Which the young Mermaids gather, 
her mild rays 
Are shining ; and upon the coral towers, 
With swinging sea-weed draped, her 
soft light strays. 



44 SONNET TO 



Thus, through my soul's deep-shaded, lightless 
places, 

In breaks thy presence like a starry beam, 
Revealing in life's desert an oasis, — 

Making reality a heavenly dream ! 
Nestle still closer. Now, we seem to be, 

Thyself the Ocean, I that Star to thee ! 



45 



INSPIRATION 



The fount of inspiration lies 
Where'er the Poet chooses. 
'Neath soft Italia's tinted skies, 
Where Love doth lurk in those dark eyes 
Which light the bowers of Paradise, 
(At least so say the Muses,) 
Or, where the heartless Northern blast, 

Upon his frozen steed astride, 
His snowy cloak at random cast, 
Loud shrieketh as he hurrieth past, 
Relentless, furious, and fast, 
The cozy Ingle-side. 



46 INSPIRATION. 



A plaintive song, a wee wild-flower, 

Have wakened in the soul 
Till then unconscious of the power, 
An inspiration for the hour, 
A ray unseen, unfelt before, — 
The tenth wave on the silvery shore, — 
Then, lost the sweet control. 

Spirits there are, to whom, unknown 
To the cold world, each fleeting min- 
ute 
Has a dear influence of its own, 
Some softer light, some tenderer tone, 
Some moonlight dream around it thrown, 
Some glad thought in it ! 

There are who delve, for glory's sake, 

The Laureate to attain ! 
Who think asleep, who toil awake, 
And life a melancholy make, 



INSPIRATION. 47 



By striving thus to overtake 
A shadow in the brain ! 

Thus woo not I, for Epic theme, 

The unpropitious Nine ; 
Thus drink not I from shadowy stream 
Chained to Ambition's slavish dream. 
O, sweeter far the draught I deem 
From this wee fount of mine ! 

No serious Melpomene, 

Krom her despotic throne, ' 
Shall issue her commands to me ! 
My thought, though humble, shall be free; 
Nor supplicate, on bended knee, 
For leave to walk alone. 
O'er heath, thro' vale and meadow, straying, 

Adown the rocky glen, — 
Where sunbeams on small boughs are 
playing, 



48 INSPIRATION. 



Where unknown flowers are gently sway- 
ing, 
And the shy fairies do their Maying, 
Far from the haunts of men. 

Mine be the Muse the instant brings, 

Type of the passing feeling, — 
The light from whose prismatic wings, 
In fitful, trembling beauty, flings 
Its tint o'er my imaginings, 
Electric thought revealing ! 

Thus, from each fancy flitting by, 

My wayward friend shall take 
Some little scented memory, 
Some wild-flower from my thought's 

bouquet, 
Her quaint, mosaic history 
Of my mind's life to make. 



49 



TRIUNE EPIGRAM 



Who thinks the nascitur not fit, 

Sure sense and wisdom lacks. 
Why rove afar for sterling wit ? 

We have it in our Saxe ! 
Quote you from Juvenal's Satirics 

The wittiest idea, 
Or gems from the Horatian Lyrics, 

We can quote W(h)ittier here! 
Then seek not wit in foreign lands, 

Nor search through ancient tomes, 
When it is ready at our hands, 

And sparkling in our Ho(l)mes! 

4 



50 



TO A VENERABLE HURDY-GURDY. 



Blest were the hours, when, in thy happy prime, 
Thy soul, new-wired, out-twanged itself in 
song, 
When thy proud owner's bounding heart kept 
time 
To thy glad measure as life trolled along. 

How pensively he watched the Son's last raise 
Silvering thy polished surface as they shone ! 



TO A VENERABLE HURDY-GURDY. 



51 



How smiled he, as he circled thee with baize 
At eve, when thy triumphant march was 
done ! 

Then waked thy fervid chords to " Love's 
Young Dream," 
Or moaned through " Mary, I believed thee 
true " ! 
Sweetly they told of " Bendemeer's blue 
stream," 
And joyous wert thou. Life, to thee, was 
new ! 



How much like youth ! In thy first spring- 
time days 
Full of glad influence, and tender tone, 
Ready, at morn, with thy harmonious lays, 
Nor wearied with thyself when day was done. 
How much like youth ! 



52 TO A VENERABLE HURDY-GURDY. 

Now suddenly ejecting quaint orgasms, 

Mingled with wild and incoherent mutter- 
ing? 
And horrid groans, indicative of spasms, 
One strain, and then a five-bar rest of stut- 
tering, — 

How much like age ! 

How much like age! The will without the 
power, 

Sad emblem of man's worn-out pilgrimage, 
Weakness and imbecility thy dower, 

Past by neglectfully, — how much like age ! 

Poor Hurdy ! mourn not over rusty wires 
And broken cogs : no ! view them (as you can) 

But as the emblems of the weak desires, 
The hopes decayed which mark the course 
of man. 



TO A VENERABLE HURDY-GURDY. 53 

Cheer up then ! Thine is no peculiar lot: 
Such is the history of us all below. 

This living, rusting, but to be forgot, 
Completes the cycle of a world of woe. 



54 



JENNY LIND'S GREETING TO AMERICA. 



It is no dream ! The foaming sea 
Its burden to the shore has cast, 
And at the shrine of Liberty 
I kneel at last. 

The shrine of Liberty ! that word 

By me how prized, to me how dear ! 
Though undefined, so often heard ! 
And am I here ? 



JENNY LIND'S GREETING TO AMERICA. 55 

Yes, I am here ! My pulses leap ! 
With patriot zeal my bosom thrills ! 

that this genial air might sweep 

O'er Swedia's hills, — 

Until her every mount and dell 

(As touched by an enchanter's wand) 
Should smile beneath its magic spell, — 
Mine own, loved land! 

1 come ! I come to weave a chain 

Of melody, to bind the hour. 
O, should we never meet again, 
May it have power 

To say, where words could not impart 

The wildering, joyous thoughts which throng, 
I yielded you my very heart, 
My soul, my soul, in Song. 



56 



SONNET. 



Phrenology ! I send this missive to you now, 
To beg you '11 send a load of bumps, by the 
first train. 
Having many virtuous holes unoccupied, do 
thou, 
In mercy to thine humble supplicant, deign 
To stuff them for my good. 

Cram full my upper story 
With knots of blazing piety ; that it may be 
A transcendental lighthouse, — a far-shining 
glory ! 



SONNET. 57 



Whose rays, humane, point out the fearful 
breakers in life's sea. 
Stop up all those dark crevices where sin might 
enter : 

When short of intellectual putty, stick to 
wax ! 
Place Moral Courage, sentinel, in the centre, 
And let Suspicion, wary, peep through the 
small cracks. 
Where substance can't be used, resort to an 

injection : 
In short, if "all the same to you," make me 
perfection ! 



58 



THE PRAYER OF THE PRAIRIE-FLOWER. 



Loitering in a garden one summer's day, among 
a collection of gorgeous exotics, I spied a tiny flower 
which seemed so out of place, with her little, pale, 
sentimental face peeping through the flaunting dresses 
of those foreign flirts (who appeared to take infinite 
satisfaction in standing between her and the blue 
sky and sunshine), I thought the flower whispered 
me this scented prayer : — 

Bear me back! bear me back to the quiet nook 

In the prairie glade, 
Where, near the sadly murmuring brook, 

With friends around me, 
By the odor-laden breezes swayed, 

You found me. 



THE PRAYER OF THE PRAIRIE-FLOWER. 59 

Beneath the quiet, overarching sky, 

Unknown and unadmired 
Save by those few I love the best 

And Him who sent me from on high, 
Let me in silence rest. 
O, take me back ! that I may hear again 
His voide low murmuring on the boundless plain. 

Say not that gentle care will house me warm 
When winter breathes upon my sister flowers, 

No fears have I! 

Heaven's mercy shields me through the sum- 
mer storm, 

And Faith bides calmly the autumnal hours, 
When I must die. 

Nay, more ! 

Hold me not up in my simplicity, 
To be the gaze of those exotic things 



60 THE PRAYER OF THE PRAIRIE-FLOWER. 

From foreign shore. 

Give them their passport from Nobility ! 
I am protected by the King of kings ! 

I cannot be resigned ; but still must pine 
For the cool rustling of the evening breeze 

In that far home of mine. 

O, let me hold, in this mine hour of grief, 

Some cherished memory from that loved spot, 
Though but a faded leaf ! 

Deny me not ! 

Never again ! my sad heart tells me so, 
Shall I rejoice among my kindred flowers. 
That joy I may not know, 
Upon the rivulet's moist and mossy bank, 
To loiter pleasant days and moonlight hours, 
Never again ! 



THE PRAYER OF THE PRAIRIE-FLOWER. 61 

Broken is the delicious chain ; 
A dark cloud lowers. 

I 'm dying ! 

Loosen the earth around me ! 

Remove those lilies, that the sad breeze, sigh- 
ing? 
May kiss me for the last, last time. 
Bring me some dew ! my feverish lips are drying : 

I hear the Fairies' pensive funeral chime. 



62 



SHADOWS 



How dreary seems this world, 

Examined through a roll of unpaid bills, 
A map of misery to the eye unfurled, 

A perfect horror-scope of ills ! 

We scan the horizon, in the hope to see 

Some barque returning where our venture 
lay, 

Freighted with golden promise of " to be " ! 
No signal greets us in the stormy bay ! 



SHADOWS. 63 



How very strangely now upon the ear 

Fall words of kindness, voices low and sweet, 

Whispering of blissful expectations near, 
Hastening the glad heart's beat! 

Then look we through our telescope for friends : 
Not one, alas ! where once we had so many. 

A sudden dulness has come o'er the lends, 
Point where we may, we look in vain for any. 

Endeavor we, by means of an extension, 
To reach our object. Still we strive in vain. 

At last it comes within our comprehension 
That what we 've lost will ne'er come back 
again. 

Like to some dream insane doth come the text, 
" To him who hath, to him shall more be 
given," 



64 SHADOWS. 



" From him who hath not — " Here, still more 

perplexed, 
We wish our Creditors (to make it even) 
Enjoying in that world they call the next 
The bliss we 've tasted here. Perhaps that 's 

Heaven ! 



65 



SONNET TO 



" Too late I stayed." A very pleasant crime, 
"Which, doubtless, one is bound to expiate 
When he determines how to reckon time. 
It 's* all Pickwickian, this idea of late. 
If thus the bright hours hasten, — if the 
sands 
Thus get the start of time and all ho- 
rology,— 
My watch shall be divested of the hands. 
Then shall I have the face to make 
apology. 

5 



66 SONNET TO 



One thing is very certain in this life, 

'T is this: that we're descended, all, from 
Tantalus. 
Pray Heaven he had a handsome, virtuous wife 
(That history don't mention her is scanda- 
lous). 
If there 's one question harder than another 
To answer, in such case, it 's " How 's your 
mother?" 



67 



ROM ANZ A. — TO 



What would life be to us without Romance ? 

A march funereal, with its steady beat 
And solemn step. A serio-comic dance, 

Whose only music were the tramp of feet 
O'er that undevious bridge, where every soul 

Must leave some relic, as it passes by, — 
Some dear remembrancer, by way of toll, 

And, in exchange, receive a tear — or sigh. 



68 ROMANZA. 



O, rather let our thought go wandering free 
As roving Gypsies. Now, through summer 
fields ; 
Now, tenting it beside the sobbing sea, 

Whose low, sad murmuring through the 
senses steals 
Like unforgotten music of a bird, 

With pensive memories and sad voices 
blended ; 
Or plaintive song, which, though for years 
unheard, 
Comes sighing back, e'en sadder than it then 
did. 

i 
If we could borrow wings, dear Genevieve, 

We'd take a flight across the summer seas! 
Or, bidding earth good by some moonlight 
eve, 
Touch at " Orion " and the " Pleiades ! " 



ROMANZA. 69 



Free^ from her moorings some young Angel's 
boat, 
While he in dreams of his fair saint lies 
sleeping, 
From star to star, propelled by music, float, 
Through the bright heavens our brilliant 
voyage keeping. 

Or we would hang our hearts upon the horns 

Of the, young moon, in the fresh evening air, 
While, far below, upon mosaic lawns, 

Flowers of the night their scented breasts 
lay bare 
To catch the wayward wanderers, should af- 
fright, 
When Luna in the West begins to wane, 
Urge them to tempt the uncalculated height, 
And leap, through silence, down to earth 
again ! 



70 ROMANZA. 



Let others kneel before the gaudy shrine 

Of Flora, circled with enamelled chain. 
Ours be the sweeter task, dear Genevieve, 

The scented brier in the shady lane 
With the star-wooed Nyctanthis flower to 
weave. 
Or make sad wreaths of withered way-side 
flowers, 
From which the fragrance and the bloom have 
past, 
Whose faded leaves turn backward to those 
hours 
The envious dial counted ofT so fast. 

Forget to-day. Come back with me ! and 
dream 
O'er those sweet yesterdays we 've loved 
and lost, 



ROMANZA. 71 



Which stand, with folded wings, beside life's 

stream, 
Softly daguerreotyped by memory's beam. 

Not misanthropical to count the cost, 
But, miser-like, to hug them to thy heart, 

(Those Phantom Statuettes of joy's ideal,) 
Till, warmed by thee, each pulse anew shall 
start, 
And they shall live again, unchanged and 
real! 



72 



THE FESTIVAL OF TEARS. 



'T is Music's choicest " Festival" 
'T is Malibran* who sings ! 

With her thrilling Hallelujahs, 
The vast Cathedral rings ! 



* The death of Malibran was most touching and poetic, as 
described to me by that eloquent enthusiast, Eev. Henry Giles. 
What of merit there may be in this little poem, I may refer to 
him, in a certain sense, as it was his glowing description which 
inspired me. — H. J. S. 



THE FESTIVAL OF TEARS. 73 

Free as the bird among the clouds, 

She roams without control ; 
Her rich, sad tones come gushing forth 

Like voices from the soul ! 

Swaying, with her angelic notes, 

The awed and silent crowd, 
"Whose hearts, responsive to the spell, 

Are beating fast and loud, 

What muffled form bends over her, 

To catch her last low tone ? 
What passionate idolater, 

Mysterious and alone ? 

Some ardent lover must he be ; — 

How clings he to her side ! 
How lifteth he his mantle up, 

To veil his flush of pride ! 



74 THE FESTIVAL OF TEARS. 

Nearer he draws ! He fears to lose, 
Of hers, the slightest breath ! 

" Bravissimo ! " He leads her out ! 
The mantle falls. 'T is Death ! 

Carved upon that ghastly brow 

In lurid light appears, 
" This shall be called my ' Festival,' 

The Festival of Tears ! " 

Loved friends are bending over her. 

" In vain ! " a deep voice sadi, 
" Ye are but whispering to dust, 

That soul in song hath fled ! " 

" Robed for a higher ( Festival,' 
She heareth not your prayer." 

She is now in Heaven's Cathedral, - 
Her spirit chanteth there ! " 



75 



SONNET TO NOTHING. 



Mysterious Nihil ! As I never saw you, 
Nor can describe you, or in form or feature, 
You '11 marvel at my sudden fondness for 
you. 
But do n't look blank, if I should chance 

to meet you. 
I know your fascinating sister, Silence, 
very well : 
Many are the cozy times we 've had to- 
gether. 



76 SONNET TO NOTHING. 

Oft her sweet influence hath bound me in 
a spell 
Of dreamy ecstasy, until I knew not whether, 
Listening the Ocean's sympathetic grieving 
(As the odor-laden land-breeze loitered by), 
J T«vas my own heart, or the sad sea, thus 
heaving ; 
Or if ttie Wind's soft breath were your 
dear Sister's sigh. 
When next you hear from Silence, (Nothing,) 

as you will, 
Forget not, though she scorn to speak to me, 
I love her still ! 



77 



TO THE BOBOLINK. 



Quaint and curious little singer, 
Winged, aerial Swiss bell-ringer, 
Floating now, as if at pleasure 
On thine own delicious measure, 
In the Summer air: 
Now upon a tree-top tilting, 
Keeping time with thy mad lilting, 
Melodizing, in thy freak, 
Irish, Dutch, Hungarian, Greek, 
Joyous everywhere. 



78 TO THE BOBOLINK. 



Now, a short and funny strain, 

Ending quick, as if a pain 
Suddenly attacked the throat, 
Strangling here and there a note, 
And then racing 

Through the queerest fantasies, 

On the grass and in the skies, 

Tinkling, choaking, fluttering, chattering, 
Blinking, winking, bowing, clattering, 
Trotting, running, pacing. 

Love and marriage (both " high treason ") 
You perfect in one short season. 
" Arnault," and " Corelli " too, 
Yield, at once, the palm to you 

In their art. 
Pupils of a month or so 
You instruct in all you know, 
And your concerts prove, in Autumn, 



TO THE BOBOLINK. 79 



How successfully you 've taught 'em 
In each part. 

First, three short eccentric quirks, 
Then fourteen spasmodic jerks, 
And now, gushing forth amain, 
Comes that wild, voluptuous strain, 

Like a Polka measure. 
Sweet, continuous it flows, 
Gathering richness as it goes, 
A melodious avalanche ! 
Which " Rossini," " Weber," " Planche," 

Would esteem a treasure. 

Mocking-bird * doth ne'er essay 
To repeat thy wondrous lay, 

* It is a fact indisputable, that the " Mocking-bird" cannot 
imitate the note of the " Bobolink." It is asserted, moreover, 
that he pines in silence if within hearing of that marvellous 
tone which thus defies his art. — H. J. S. 



80 TO THE BOBOLINK. 



Though he ponder e'er so long 
Upon thy metallic song, 

Listens he in vain. 
Following a mountain sprite 
Down a rocky steep, at night, 
Would involve no surer fate 
Than the attempt to imitate 

That melodious rain. 

Quaint and curious little singer, 
Winged, aerial Swiss bell-ringer, . 
Be it sunshine, cloud, or rain, 
That same liquid, wild refrain 

Dances o'er us. 
Yet no mortal that I 've seen, 
(Good authority I mean,) 
Though he claim to comprehend 
All the solos ever penned, 

Can translate that chorus. 



81 



TO . A CAROL 



You bid me write, lady ! unconscious, I deem, 
How cold and unmeaning the numbers will 
be, 

Unless thy pure Spirit preside o'er the dream, 
Inspiring the bard by some token from thee^ 

Give thou but a look, or a wave of the hand, 
To thy suppliant here, J t will inspire him 
more 
Than a wreath from the haughtiest Nine in 
the land. 
O kindle mine Altar ! I pray, I implore ! 

6 



82 A CAROL. 



A glance ! Blessed Sunbeam ! No longer un- 
known 
The Poet shall languish. No more shall be 
hung 
The harp on the willows, to murmur and 
moan, 
No longer neglected, no longer unstrung. 

If I touch but the chords, the wild measure 
outflows, 
Like the lark's liquid lay through the sum- 
mer air ringing ; 
Creations of Beauty start up from repose, 
And the Angel of Thought her sweet incense 
is bringing. 

As the Statue of Memnon at morning re- 
plies 
Tn melody soft to the Sun's earliest smile, 



A CAROL. 83 



My heart, warmed to life by the light of thine 
eyes, 
In song would repay their glad influence 
the while. 

Alas for the Muse, when that light is with- 
drawn ! 
How faintly the fires on her altar shall burn ! 
Her hope, her existence itself, will be gone, 
When that bright inspiration has failed to 
return. 

As the mariner, lone, o'er the stormy wave 

driven, 

Each night looketh up, from his home on 

the main, 

For that star of his faith to rekindle in heaven, 

Thus, lady, I watch thy bright coming again. 



84 



THE LILY'S WOOING. 



No marvel woman should love flowers ; they bear 
So much of fanciful similitude 
To her own history." 



Within a cozy little bower 
A modest wild-rose bloomed ; 

The wings of every passing hour 

Were by her breath perfumed. 

From out her scented chalice 
The nightingale would drink, 

And the evening star looked down on her 

With a most coquettish wink. 



the lily's wooing. 85 



She knew the star was far too high 

To think of coming down, 

So she pouted with her fragrant lip, 
And frowned her thorniest frown. 

The moon peeped into her bower, and smiled 
On her leaves so bright with dew ; 

Oh ! she was as joyous as Rose could be, 

For nothing of love she knew. 

She often wished that some sweet flower 
Might greet her in the wood, 

Might share her soft, sad summer nights, 

And cheer her solitude. 

Yet merrily flew the hours by, 
When the Rose was young in May ; 

The South-wind, with its gentle sigh, 

Was rocking her all the day. 



86 



The humming-bird, with his satin wing, 

Would fan her at noontide hour, 

And the butterfly opened his golden screen, 
To shadow the fainting flower. 

***** 

But the Rose at last did dream a dream 

Of a floweret tall and fair: 

Each day that vision is still the theme, 
Each night the dear dream is there. 

No longer does she joy to hear 
The pine-bird's rippling tone, — 

She starts if the humming-bird come near, 

She weeps if left alone. 

Day after day does she languish on, 
Poor, love-lorn Queen of Flowers ! 
Looking for that dear mystery 
Which haunts her dreamy hours. 



the lily's wooing. 87 

In vain the evening breeze may sigh 
The trembling trees among; 

In vain the wild-bird's melody, — 

She heedeth not his song. 

The moonlight is too sad for her, 
Too gay the sunny glare ; 

And life is but a dreary blank, 

Unless that dream be there. 



'T is now far on in the month of June, 
A dark and stormy night ! 

In mockery of the shrouded moon, 

The lightning quivers bright. 

The clouds upon the tempest borne 

In mad confusion ride ; 

From her stock the delicate Rose is torn, 
And dropped on a rushing tide. 



88 



Far away ! through ripple, and eddy, and foam, 
She glides on the river's breast, 

Till she finds herself clasped in a soft embrace, 

And gently lulled to rest. 

O for one breath from her own loved vale, 
One sunny wild-wood gleam ! 

One sad, delicious, final glimpse 

Of that lost precious dream ! 

Trembling she lay through that stormy night, 
Unconscious of the power 

Which held her safe on the waves so light, 

A poor, heart-broken flower. 

***** 

The storm has ceased ; through parting clouds 
The sparkling stars are peeping : 

In the graceful folds of a Lily pale 

A languid Rose lies sleeping. 



the lily's wooing. 89 

Sweet smile ! Some cherished memory 
Mingles with her repose : 

Zephyr, perhaps, is murmuring 

Soft Arias to the Rose. 

She wakes ! Then asks the tall, pale flower, 
In sad and gentle tone, 

" Why hast thou left thy scented bower, 

Unguided, and alone? " 

***** 

The story of the midnight storm 
Is told with such sweet grief, 

The Lily presses her yielding form, 

And kisses her blushing leaf. 

Then looks he down in the waters clear, 
And murmurs the Lily pale, 

" A bird hath sung of a lovely Rose, 

Far off in a shady vale. 



90 THE LILY'S WOOING. 

" He sang as of the fairest thing 
This world of ours could show, — 

A wanderer, strayed from Paradise, 

To this cold earth below." 

Oft have I prayed that flower to see, 
Doubting the love-sick bird sang true. 

No more I doubt. He sang of thee ! 

Sweet Vision of light and dew ! 

" O wilt thou leave thy forest dear, 
The bird, and the scented vine, 

To dwell with me on the waters clear ? 

Loved Rose ! wilt thou be mine ? " 

With bended stalk, and leaf downcast, 

Trembling the fair one lay. 

She never had been wooed before : 
What could the poor Rose say? 



THE LILY'S WOOING. 



91 



" Fear not ! " the ardent Lily said, 
Clasping her slender zone, 

" But rest thou here. Be thou my queen! 

Come, share my broad green throne ! " 

" Beneath the same glad summer sky, 
Rocked on the same blue wave, 

We '11 live, and love our years away, 

And find at last one grave ! " 



Now deeper blushed the modest Rose, 
At the warmth of the Lily's press. 

By the light of the stars, at twilight's close, 
She whispered a perfumed "Yes!" 



92 



SONNET. — OCEAN TWILIGHT. 



Sa^, moaning Ocean! o'er whose sobbing breast 

Golden winged moonbeams hover trem- 
blingly, 
As the first star stoops to the shadowy West, 

And Silence prints her kiss on lawn and lea, 
Wrap me in that sweet influence which of yore 

Folded my spirit in its cool embrace, 
While dreamily I stood upon the shore, 

Watching the panting waves, in emulous race, 



OCEAN TWILIGHT. 93 

Each in its turn exhausted reach the goal ; 

Leaving its mark of foam upon the sand. 
It waked my heart, where now it stirs my soul, 
That wrestling wave upon the lonely strand, 
So much resembleth it the mad, unmeaning 

strife, 
"Which ends, like that, in foam, upon the shore 
of life. 



94 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 



Bride of the summer night ! 

Over the dewy mountain shining clear, 
So eloquent of love and light, 

Once more I greet thee here. 

Here, where in early time I felt 

The hallowed impulse of the heart's first 
dream, 
And I, in silent adoration, knelt 

Beneath thy chastening beam. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 95 

Long years have passed, sweet Vision ! 

Since those delicious hours, 
"When from thy bower Elysian 

I plucked poetic flowers, — 



And, weaving garlands, idly deemed 

That Time would dim their freshness never, 

But that all radiant as they seemed 

In their young bloom they would be ever. 

Alas ! the hand is weary, 

The eye that watched grows dim, 

The memories of dear voices lost 
Chant their funereal hymn. 



The forest shade seems deeper, 
There 's more mist upon the hill, 



96 TO THE EVENING STAR. 

The paths down hill are steeper, 
And will soon be steeper still ! 

***** 

How simple is life's story ! 

Moon ! ruddy, rosy, radiant light ! 
Love, passion, hope, fame, glory ! 

Clouds, shadows, sober twilight, night ! 

Like spectres do we pass 

Across a flowerless and deserted land, 
Watching the turning of the glass, 

The steady ebbing of the down-flowing sand. 

But thou still shinest brightly, 

As on that sad-remembered, halcyon even ; 
Still dost thou wander nightly, 

Fulfilling thy same glorious destiny in 
heaven ! 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 97 



And thus, to other hearts, like mine, 

Throughout thy future unrecorded years,, 

Thy calm and holy light shall shine 

Upon youth's ardent hopes, and manhood's 
spectral fears. 



98 



SONNET TO THE DIV'L! 



Dear Satan ! we 've been anxious to address 
you, 
But hardly had the boldness to approach. 
"Whether 't would do to greet you with " God 
bless you ! " 
Were more than doubtful ; and then how to 
broach 
The subject, which has ne'er been quite ex- 
plained, — 
Your horns and tail ? — concerning which 



SONNET TO THE DIv'L ! 99 

However, this first step is one point gained. 

Perceiving that you 're not so devilish furious, 
Respectfully we ask how long your tail is. 

Should the descriptions of you, in Hell's 
History, 
Be taken strictly, or cum grano salis ? 

For Heaven's sake, unfold the awful mys- 
tery! 
Is it a fact, as we have understood, 

That brimstone pate is your only food ? 



100 



LINES 



SUGGESTED BY THE RETURN OF THE ATLANTIC, SUPPOSED 
TO HAVE BEEN LOST. 



Sing not the song of triumph, 
Shout not the shout of glee, 

But deeper let the throbbing 
Of thy soul's expression be. 

Bow to that Power Supernal, 
Who held her trembling form 

In the hollow of his hand upright 
Through the unrelenting storm. 



LINES. 101 



Shake off all worldly feeling, 

Forget all worldly ties, 
Until thy spirit holdeth 

Communion with the skies. 

Humbly shalt thou acknowledge 
Her strength were all in vain, 

To struggle with the elements, 
To battle with the main ! 

O, higher were the sailor's hopes, 
When the demon of the gale 

Shouted amid the shrieking ropes, 
And shook the tattered sail ! 

She did not brave the tempest, 
She merely lived, to prove 

That mightier than the tempest 
Was the power of holy Love. 



102 LINES. 



Her strength ! 'T were less than weakness, 

To test the Ocean's might; 
With its mountain surges wrestling, 

Through the melancholy night. 

Bawbles and toys her engine, 

Her pilots, and her helm, 
Needing but one unguided wave 

To strangle and o'erwhelm. 

Sing not the song of triumph, 

Shout not the shout of glee, 
But deeper let the throbbing 

Of thy soul's expression be. 



103 



THE SERE N ADE 



The other night, at half-past two o'clock, 
(People who dine at twelve would call it 
morning,) 
I was awakened by a sudden shock, 

Almost as fearful as the startling warning 
The prophe.t Camel gives his Arab master 
Of the Simoom's dread coming. 

I was dreaming 
Of rosy lips, and necks of alabaster. 



104 THE SERENADE. 



Love and myself deliciously were scheming 
All sorts of prettinesses in a bower, when, 

hark! 
The horn, asthmatic, groans its dismal 

warner, 
Like a huge giant yawning in the dark. 
Cupid, farewell! They 're coming round 
the corner. 
To bring forth sounds so monstrously heretic, 
Night must have wed the Mastodon Emetic! 



105 



"GOD SAVE THE COMMONWEALTH! 



" God save the Commonwealth " ! We need 
Some pious pater noster in these days, 

When every jackass munches his own creed, 
And swears by thorns and thistles, while he 
brays. 

The holy parson to his godly flock 

Doth preach sedition ; nor can rest at ease 

Unless she deal the Bible a hard knock, 
Or utter some such homilies as these: — 



106 " GOD SAVE THE COMMONWEALTH ! " 

" Ye think the miracles are true, then, do ye ? 

And ye believe them to this hour? Poor 
fools ! 
How often must I put this thesis to ye, — 

Religion must not be behind the schools ! 

" D' ye think that Balaam's ass in Hebrew 
spoke 
As fluently as 't were his mother tongue ? 
Or d' ye think, with me, 't was but a joke 
Palmed off upon the world when it was 
young, 

" And there was dearth of fancy ? Trust ye not 
To aught but what your 'higher law' in- 
spires ! 

Trample the Constitution under foot ! 

And from my altar light your fading fires ! " 



107 



THE PILOT 'S THERE! 

A RESPONSE TO " ROCKS AHEAD ! " BT MARTIN F. TUPPER, 
IN THE TRANSCRIPT, APRIL 18, 1851. 

" Rocks Ahead! " We need no warnings, 

Though we trust thou art sincere ; 
Taking kindly thy intention, 
We return to thee thy fear. 
Urged by a resistless impulse, 

Thou hast answered to the call ; 
With prophetic finger pointing 
To the phantom on the wall. 

Steady shall our gallant vessel 
Mount o'er every troubled sea, 



108 THE PILOT 'S THERE! 

With her sails untorn and stainless, 
And her pennon floating free ! 
Safely through the angry surges 

She her precious weight shall bear, 
Looking calmly on her peril, 
While she sees her pilot there ! 

Ever faithful to his duty, 

Constant ever at his post, 
He will rescue her from danger, 
Though she may be tempest-tost. 

On the " rocks " she will not founder. 

Fear not, Saxon, nor despair: 
She shall bring her priceless cargo 
Safely home. « The Pilot's there ! " 

Time, with weary ages laden, 
Shall behold her flag unfurled, 



THE PILOT 'S THERE ! 109 

And the arms of Freedom stretching 
To the verges of the world. 
While the eagle from his eyrie, 

As he plumes his radiant wings, 
Looks in vain for those dominions 
Which were the sport of kings. 

When our " Pilot," crowned with glory, 

Sleepeth in his honored grave, 
Still shall ride the gallant vessel 
Safely, o'er the stormiest wave ; 
For his spirit* shall be with her, 
Shall protect her everywhere ; 
And his influence, immortal, 
Ever be her « Pilot " there! 



* The wailing of a nation has gone forth since the publica- 
tion of this faint tribute to the Hon. Daniel Webster, and the 
prophecy has become a sad historic fact. Admiration for the 
living is changed to reverence for the dead. 



110 



LINES 

TO AN ^EOLIAN HARP IN MY WINDOW. 

Softly responding to the Etesian wind, 
Comes a faint melody ; as if from far 

Echoed the chime harmonious, which doth bind 
In choral chain planet and moon and star. 

It is my Wind-Harp, at its evening prayer ! 

No mortal hand could win such gentle tone 
From those frail wires : some tiny sprite is there, 

Uttering his pensive memories, sad and lone. 



LINES. Ill 



Hark ! now a rapid, changeful, joyous meas- 
ure; 
A troop of Fairies o'er the chords is stray- 
ing, 
Wooing the Harp's vibrations back to pleas- 
ure, 
By the wild beauty of their roundelaying. 

Now doth some low, half-sobbing, tender theme, 
Of melancholy meaning, gently grieving, 

Die ere half-whispered, — a delicious dream 
Of " music, moonlight, love, and flowers " 
weaving. 

Each night an angel tunes those trembling 
chords ; 

And Zephyr, stooping as he hastes along, 
Doth breathe upon them little scented words, 

Which the fond Harp returns to him in song. 



112 LINES. 



Sweet Seraph! dwelling in those plaintive 
strings, 

Ne'er canst thou weary with thy sad refrain. 
Wave at my window thy melodious wings; 

Wrap me in that delirious trance again ! 

Light up these shadows with the sunshine gone, 
Transport me back to youth's delightful shore! 

No answer save that melancholy moan ? 
The wind is lulled to rest : my dream is o'er! 



113 



MISS SNOW TO HER PERSECUTORS. 



The following lines were written in answer to a series of poetical slura 
addressed to "Miss Snow," signed "Frost," "White," and "Hail," 
published in the Boston Post. 



A valiant man you are in fact, 

A gallant Colonel, Mr. " Post," 
To see a poor, lone girl attacked, 
And barbecued, and hewed, and hacked, 
By such a rabble host ! 



Who says there 's nothing in a name, 
When every rascal, high or low, 

8 



114 MISS SNOW TO HER PERSECUTORS. 

Or halt, or blind, or deaf, or lame, 

Asserts his right of making game 

Of me, poor spinster Snow ? 

First, Mr. " Frost " must try to sing 

To his harp's frozen wire, 
A poor, untuned, discordant thing ; 
A voiceless bird with broken wing, 

A melancholy lyre. 

However, I can pardon him, 

If he repent in time, 
(Before I tear him limb from limb,) 
For " Frost " is but the synonyme 

With cold and cheerless rhyme. 

But for the rest, as " White " and " Hail," 

Who use so much mock feeling ; 
Who talk so soft, and look so pale, 



MISS SNOW TO HER PERSECUTORS. 115 

Who hold bad jokes up by the tail, 
Until they set them squealing, — 

I 'Jl sit upon their window pane ; 
And, when they 're fast asleep, 
I '11 shake with all my might and main. 
They shall not even doze again ; 
All night my watch I '11 keep. 



I 'm journeying to the northward now, 

There to remain until December, 
But I have made a solemn vow, 
Which shall be kept ; and one, I trow, 
Which they will long remember. 

My footsteps shall approach so light, 
Their wary ears in vain shall listen 
And they shall cower with affright, 



116 MISS SNOW TO HER PERSECUTORS. 

As, hurrying past them, in the night, 
My white robes glisten ! 

My vengeance shall be sure as swift, 

My purpose fixed, there 's no delaying. 
From out my cloudy home once rift, 
Before they can suspect my drift, 
I '11 be among them sleighing. 



117 



TO BOSIO. 



Softly flows the limpid measure 
Of the streamlet's voice so clear ; 

Wandering through mosaic meadows, 
Freshening all it floweth near. 

Here reflects it golden sunshine 

From its bright, transparent breast ; 

Here, within some quiet eddy, 
Woos the calm blue sky to rest. 



118 TO BOSIO. 



Now with low, sad tone outmurmuring, 
Like the chanting of a prayer 

From the Fairies' dim cathedral, 

Hid among the wild-flowers there, — 

Whispering now faint, dream-like music, 
From some choir far beyond, 

Warbling forth the sweet Te Deum, 
While the tiny priests respond. 

Sparkling now, as on it rusheth 
O'er the laughing, dimpling shoal ; 

Winking to the merry sunshine, 
Joying in its uncontrol ; — 

Jumping o'er the polished pebbles, 

Playfully the wavelets flow, 
Waltzing with the water-lily 

In the shady pool below. 



TO BOSIO. 119 

1 _ _ 



Wheresoe'er the streamlet wandereth, 
Beauty follows in its path ; 

And the emerald grass-way showeth 
The sweet influence it hath ; — 

Giving joy, where'er it glideth, 
Unto weary bird and flower ; 

Modestly, the while, unconscious 
Of its unpretending power. » 

Thus in gladness ever floweth, 
With its gush of tender tone, 

Thy clear stream of song melodious, 
Fraught with beauty all its own. 

Now, as from the heart's glad fountain, 
Comes a strain of joy and love; 

Like the lark's pure lay outwelling 
From some tinted cloud above; — 



120 TO BOSIO. 



Now, as if the soul in sorrow 
Breathed in song its earnest prayer ; 

While the soft, delicious cadence 
Seems to consecrate the air. 

Fare thee well ! delightful minstrel, 
Bless the power God hath given ; 

This may be but the rehearsal 
For thy ministry in heaven. 



121 



SONNET. — SUMMER RAIN. 



Who hath not poetized thee, Summer Rain ? 
Both high and low, patrician and plebeian. 
Then why not I take up the glad refrain, 
And canonize thee with my humble 

Paean? 
Not for the good thou doest to x trees 
and flowers, 
Which scorching suns have of their bloom 
bereft ; 



122 SONNET. SUMMER RAIN. 

But that thou clean'st these filthy streets of 
ours, 
Of what the Common Councilmen have left. 
Productive too thine influence here, as well as 
'Mid rural vales. Soon as thou comest down 
Upsprings, at once, a crop of green um- 
brellas ! 
Like mushrooms, sprouting out all over 
town. 
Merry to me thy mad and muddy mutter, 
As thou goest gurgling through the grumbling 
gutter. 






123 



SEPARATION 



Thou art lost to me for ever ! 

We must part, — whate'er the pain. 
A blight hath touched my passion-flower: 

It may not bloom again. 

O'er the surface of the dial 

Should there pass one summer cloud, 
The moment, born in sunshine, 

Lieth cold within its shroud. 



124 SEPARATION. 



Like that cloud upon the dial 
Is a doubt across Love's way ; 

He would give up all life's future 
For that one lost sunny ray. 

One shadow on the present, 
In the chain one tiny break, 

It will widen to infinity, 
Like a circle on a lake. 

O'er Hope's moonlit summer ocean, 
Vainly wouldst thou look, once more 

To see Love's frail bark returning : 
Broken is his slender oar. 

Hidden from him is that starbeam, 
By whose ray, so sad and soft, 

Seeing naught but joy before him, 
He hath wandered forth so oft. 



SEPARATION. 125 



Echoes of remembered hours 

Wander pensive through my soul ; 

As through shadowy vales in summer 
Sighs the bell's funereal toll. 

Thou art lost to me for ever ! 

We must part, — whate'er the pain. 
A blight hath touched my passion-flower 

It will not bloom again. 



126 



If any one doubts, in these transcendental, air-nav- 
igating, spirit-knocking, spontaneous-table-moving, 
caloric-engine-making, perpetual-motion-discovering 
days, the existence of the Fairies, I mourn for his 
material for happiness. 

For my own part, I confess the weakness. 'T is 
a delicious reality, lying upon the dewy grass of a 
summer's night, with my heart so full of moonlight 
as to leave no resting-place for the two-and-two- 
make-four-isms of our sordid planet, the certainty 
that I hear tiny voices, and listen to the hardly pos- 
sible plashings of infinitesimal feet dancing upon the 
moist leaves. Or that I feel some indivisible cur- 
rent of air created by the swinging of some little 
fellow from a nodding wild-flower. To me, there- 
fore, much of interest attaches to 



the fairy's invocation. 127 



THE FAIRY'S INVOCATION. 

When the bashful twilight wanders 

Through the drowsy dale, — 
When the breeze-kissed night-flower, waking, 

Lifts her dewy veil, — 
Come thou to our woodland dance ! 

Where the gold-moss spreading 
Gently bends her velvet stock 

To our lightsome treading. 

Listen ! thou down-weighed by care, 

'Pressed by burden weary; 
Holy lesson mayst thou learn 

From a simple Fairy. 
When thy shattered spirit faints, 

Desolate and lonely ; 
When the future's clouded glass 



Mirrors sorrows only ; — 



128 the fairy's invocation. 

Come unto the silent wood ! 

Let the fresh air woo thee ; 
In the cool, deep solitude, 

God shall whisper to thee. 
Words shall tremble on thy lips, 

Long, long since forsaken. 
Thy dark soul, from its eclipse, 

Shall to light awaken ! 

Leave thy sordid thoughts behind: 

All thy worldly lore 
Is not worth one purer thought 

From the days of yore. 
Blissful memory shall be 

Joy's dear satellite ; 
Visions, which for years had flown, 

Shall come back to-night. 

Come ! when timid twilight wanders 
O'er the drowsy dale, 



129 



And the star-wooed night-flower, blushing, 
Draws her dewy veil. 

Thou shalt ken the simple truths 

Which thy childhood cherished ; 
Thou shalt dream of simple things, 

World-despised, half perished. 
Then thy spirit shall rejoice 

O'er its broken chain, 
And thy mother's holy voice 

Sing to thee again. 



130 



A PROVERB AMENDED. 



" Necessity 's the mother of Invention " ; — 

The proverb reads well, but lacks common 
sense. 
Necessity may have the best intention, 

Yet all her throes conceive but impotence. 
The captive, in his dreams, may prate of bliss, 

The slave in chains may boast of happy hours, 
A fool beseech an iceberg for a kiss, 

A Laplander talk learnedly of flowers ; 



A PROVERB AMENDED. 131 

But all combined, Laplander, captive, fool, 
Approach not the sublime absurdity, 

Fit only for an idiot's Sunday school, 

That need could bring forth aught but misery. 

Necessity 's the father of despair ! 

The Devil's shadow o'er a world of care. 



132 



TO THE HONORABLE 



IN PROOF OF MY APPRECIATION OF THE PATRIOTIC AND 
DISINTERESTED MOTIVES WHICH PROMPTED HIS SLAN- 
DER OF DANIEL WEBSTER. 

Poor, weak adventurer ! Like the insect fly 
Thy simple, suicidal course doth seem, 

Doomed, for thy perilous attack, to die ; 

While, calm and steady, still shines forth the 
beam 

Thou wouldst extinguish. From thy legal shelf, 
With contrite spirit, take the penal code, 

And pass a righteous judgment on thyself: 
'Twill ease thy "conscience" of a heavy load. 



TO THE HONORABLE . 133 

Did fiery, fierce ambition lure thee on 
To climb and occupy the eagle's nest ? 

By thee that eyrie never can be won ; 

Nor can thine arrows e'er disturb his rest. 

As well might some vain-glorious straw essay 
To check Niagara's resistless flow ; 

The stream, majestic, holds its mighty way ; 
The straw goes headlong to the scum below. 

What couldst thou wish, expect, or hope to 
gain, 
By this so feeble yet malign attack ? 
The noble ship, which breasts the adverse main, 
Marks not the weed which lies across her 
track ; — 

But on she moveth, battling storm and tide, 
Following the compass with her untired wing, 



134 TO THE HONORABLE 



Nor heeds the barnacle which, at her side, 
The drowning weed maliciously may fling. 

Go back to Education ! Get re-stored 

With school-boy classics ; for thou mayst, 
with profit. 

Rejoin that social clique, well named the bored, 
Whilst thou remainedst Secretary of it. 

Keep thy frail shallop within hail from shore; 

Let honesty of purpose be thy plan ; 
Study thy Bible ! go, and sin no more ! 

And " give the world assurance of a man." 



135 



APRIL 



Herald of fly the first ! 

Who, for a moment, wakes and flaps his 
wings, 
Then hurries back to dust, 

As if he had affected marvellous things, — 
April, all hail ! 
Ducks practise novel quacks 

With German-sounding, awful variations, 
And make Greek-looking tracks 

In the soft mud ; with quizzical gyrations, 
Shaking the tail. 



136 APRIL. 



Satire on the sex so fair ! 

It glads my heart to see thee once again. 
Half hope, and half despair ; 

Now a stray sunbeam, now a shower of 
rain. 
Give me thy cool, moist hand. 

Old flirt, how piquant is thy oddity, 
Despotic, and yet not malicious fellow, — 

From morn till night no moral certainty, 
From hour to hour, if sun-shade or um- 
brella 

Be in demand. 

Amalgam curious, 

Thy yearly frolic very soon begins ; 
When exquisites look furious, 

As your prime-minister addresses them (in 
thins), 
The cool sea-breeze. 



APRIL. 137 



School-girls to show their shapes 

Doff the redoubtable, thick "Bay State" 
shawl, 
To titter in lace capes. 

You draw at sight on Boreas for a squall, 
When lo ! or fat or lean, or short or tall, 
Poor things ! they wheeze. 

April, precarious, 

Your race absurd will very soon be run. 
How uniform your pranks, and yet how vari- 
ous! 

Can't you afford a little extra sun ? 
Attempt it, pray ! 
We know your reign is short, 

Sometimes, indeed, ridiculously so, 
Often not much more than would fill a quart. 

These antics we endure, because we know 
What must come, May. 



138 APRIL. 



April ! go on, go on ! 

Manage, in your own way, your own affairs ; 
Smile half a minute and then frown; 

And who the deuce d' you imagine cares 
For such stale fun ? 
Pardon ! One thing I had forgotten ; — 

To beg that you would send old people warn- 

(Who 've dropped their flannel, and adopted 
cotton) 
Of that unmitigated breezer, 
Which turns, at once, a bright, love-making 
morning 
Into an overcoat-requiring sneezer. 
I 've done. 



139 



THE LOVER'S REVIEW. 



One calm summer night, by a magical spell, 
I summoned around me, with manifold fears, 

From city and hamlet, from dingle and dell, 
The wildering Loves of my earlier years. 

The lights and the shadows, alternate, which 
stole 
Through my feverish brain, the delicious 
alarm, 



140 the lover's review. 

The hopes, and the fears, which invaded my soul, 
As I anxiously watched the results of my 
charm, — 

Were vainly imagined. The miser, who dreams 
Of those innocent hours, in boyhood's fresh 
day, 
When his heart but reflected the sunniest 
beams, 
And no sin-darkened cloud threw a shade 
o'er his way, — 

When, untrammelled by worldliness, happy 
and free, 
With no passion to calm, and no sorrow to 
tine, — 
Unfettered by gold, — a faint emblem may be 
Of my exquisite joy with those young loves 
of mine. 



THE LOVER'S REVIEW. 141 



The west-wind was fanning the twilight, — 
't was June ; 
With their dewy lids closed, the young 
flowers lay sleeping 
In scented repose 'neath the light of the moon ; 
While Cupid and I our sweet vigils were 
keeping. 

At length a low murmur of voices is heard, 
Like the languishing air amid blossoming 
trees, 
Or the soft cooing notes of the, Paradise-bird, 
When her nest is disturbed by the wanton- 
ing breeze. 

In a phalanx of loveliness beaming they 
come, 
Arrayed in the garb of those halcyon 
hours, 



142 the lover's review. 



When the heart, half delirious, ventured to 
roam 
Like a wandering bee through a garden of 
flowers. 



There were — pardon me, Cupid ! I will not 
disclose : 
'T would be treason to name them, — unjust 
to thy cause. 
Let them rest, in their loveliness, "under the 
rose " ; — 
Far be it from me to infringe on your laws. 

They stayed but a moment, sweet May-morning 
friends ! 
Yes, one lingers yet, with a wreath on her 
brow 
Of chastened and holy affection, which lends 
The light of the Past to the shadows of Now. 



the lover's review. 143 



Bright visions of beauty ! how closely ye twine 

Round the reason of man, when the fancy 

hath flown, 

As tendrils thrown out by the fond circling vine 

Still cling to the tree, although withered and 

lone ! 

As the Lyre iEolian, impassioned and fond, 
How gentle soever the impress may be, 

To the kiss of the Zephyr will sighing respond, 
When Zephyr hath wandered away to the 
sea, — , 

Thus my spirit responds where your presence 
hath been ; 

And a breath of the past hath a magic control, 
To startle glad memories again and again, 

To wake into music the Harp of the Soul! 



144 



SONNET. 



I 'm very fond of Music, — can endure 
The rickety hand-organ's dismal moan, — 

Can, smiling, fee the ragged Troubadour 
To grind some pretty simple thing I've known 
And loved, in days irrevocably gone ; 

But have a horror of your midnight " tooter," — 

The wretch who wakes you from a happy dream 
Of some sweet feminine, and leaves you 
neuter, 



SONNET. 145 



Doubtful of all things, present, past, or future, 

Changing your golden visions into pewter. 
Roused from your sleep, you question if a 
scream 
From some poor div'l, wandering with a 

view to 

No matter what. This vile despotic rule 
Stops me just here. A Sonnetteer 's a fool ! 



10 



146 



TO 



FOR HIS MALICIOUS, THOUGH RIDICULOUSLY HARMLESS, 
ATTACK UPON DANIEL WEBSTER. 



Vain Poet ! when thy halting Muse 
Hath hobbled through her brief career ; 

And come, at last, to be of use, 

In more appropriate (grocer) sphere ; — 

When thy blunt pen hath spattered forth 
All thy beclouded brain could utter; — 

When all thy inspirations live, 

But as transparencies on butter ; — 



to . 147 

When all which wittiest thou deem'st, 
With thee, in nameless grave, shall rot, 

And no one, save thy creditors, 

Or starving wolf, shall find the spot ; — 

The simplest hint, the tiniest word, 
The Patriot to the world hath given, 

Shall be, compared with aught of thine, 
As brilliant as a star in heaven. 

Selfish, thou canst appreciate not 

Disinterestedness sublime, 
Nor comprehend the arch of thought 

Which overspans the stream of time. 



148 



LOVE IS THE LIGHTEST. 

TO A LADY WITH A PICTURE REPRESENTING CUPID IN 
THE SCALES OUTWEIGHED BY A BUTTERFLY. 

O who so dull as need be told 

That Love is light when weighed with gold ? 
A fragment of a miser's dream 

Will make poor Cupid kick the beam. 

The breeze which with the summer sea 

Dallies and flirts inconstantly, 
And then flies laughing to the shore, 

Leaving her pensive as before, — 



LOVE IS THE LIGHTEST. 149 

The dew-drop, which, at twilight hour, 
Makes love to the exhausted flower, 

But falsely, with the next sun's ray, 
In exhalation floats away, — 

Are weightier, — nor so fickle quite, 
As that capricious, winged sprite. 

Doubtest thou, Lady? prithee weigh him, — 
A butterfly will e'en betray him. 

If you should capture him at last, 
Take my advice, secure him fast : 

I 've known full many a luckless maid 
Who lost him ere he could be weighed. 



150 



E PIGRAM 



No one believes the Commonwealth. 

'T is plain the reason why, man ; 
It speaks the truth by accident, 

v And not from any good intent, 
Because its very life and health 
Depend upon a Ly-man. 



151 



ART THOU READY? 



Death cometh where he chooseth ; 

Hath he not prescriptive right ? 
To the scholar, as he museth 

O'er his classic toil at night, — 

Or to worn and weary labor, 

Done by muscle, not by mind. 
The rich man's gold, the poor man's prayer, 

He giveth to the wind. 



152 ART THOU READY ? 

The prayer he may not stop to hear: 

'T is not for Death to wait. 
Mis " pale horse " pricketh up his ear, 

And paweth at the gate ! 

The gold he cannot stoop to count: 
Onward his march he keeps. 

" What need ? " says Death ; " the sorrowing hen- 
Will count it, ere he sleeps." 

To the proud and stately warrior 

He shouteth, in the fight, 
" Falchion, and dirk, and scimitar, 

Each is my satellite ! " 

At the elbow of the statesman, 

Like a statue, doth he stand, 
Waiting for the latest proof-sheet, 

Ready to pour out his sand. 



ART THOU READY ? 153 

" 'T is my last triumphant effort ! " 
Says the statesman. Loud and clear, 

(In advance) he heard the plaudits 
"Which Ambition loves to hear. 

" 'T is thy last triumphant effort! " 

Echoed Death. The coming morn, 
Shrouded in his glorious effort, 

Is the dying statesman * borne ! 
• 
Thus, where he wills, he goeth. 

Unchallenged he may pass ; 
He moweth down the sentinel, 

And muttereth, " Flesh is grass ! " 

Prompteth he sad, yet wholesome thought, 
Wherever he may come ; 

* Death of the Earl of Chatham in the House of Lords. 



154 ART THOU READY ? 

To him who ponders as he ought, 
The warning reaches home. 

" Be thou ready ! " is his sermon, 
To which life is but the text. 

Art thou ready ? Quick determine ! 
Thine may be the summons next ! 



155 



DREAMS. 



" I grant that dreams are idle things, 
Yet have I known a few 
To which my faithful memory clings, 
They were so warm and true." 



Call those not "idle things" which rise 
Like stars when day is done, 

And all life's dull realities 
Are to oblivion gone ; 

Which nestle in the heart of care, 

And chime forgotten music there. 



156 DREAMS. 



Memory's dear self is but a dream, 
When she would fondly borrow 

The darling thoughts of happier hours 
To weave into her sorrow, — 

Embalming thus life's hopes and fears, 

The joys of youth, the woes of years. 

Yet who would lose the flight sublime 
"Which oft to dreams is given ; 

The sweet forgetfulness of time, 
The stolen glimpse of heaven, 

When the pure soul, unchained and free, 

Converses with her destiny ? 

Sweet as the moonlight's placid sleep 

Upon the storm-tired ocean, 
Or far-off music fitful heard, 

Like waking joys in motion, 



DREAMS. 157 



Is that delicious dream, which brings 
To wearied man an angel's wings ; — 

"Which leads him back to earlier days, 

With golden chain enwreathed with flowers ; 

While, through an atmosphere of tears, 
The rainbow of that halcyon time, 

With its bright promise, glows before him, 

And hope and youth are bending o'er him ! 

The Autumn wind, which sadly grieves 
O'er Summer's prostrate glories, 

And sighs upon the dying leaves 
Illuminated stories, 

With ruthless hand, at midnight hour, 

Doth desecrate young Summer's bower, — 

Leaving her with dishevelled hair, 
And russet mantle wet with showers, 



158 DREAMS. 



To shiver, in the chilly air, 

Upon her bed of withered flowers, 
Her sunny joy of yesterday, 
A dream, a vision, past away. 

'T is all a dream! from first to last, 

Earth, ocean, sky, wind, cloud, and star, 

The shadowy future, and the past, 
Alike mysterious are. 

Who thinks to read it does but err: 

Death, Death, is the interpreter! 



159 



TO 



In a quaint book ("horresco referens!") I saw 

The very last thing I was looking for. 
The idea was this : none but a fool (since 
Milton 

His valuable ink the Sonnet spilt on) 
Has condescended to waste brains and time 

On just precisely fourteen lines of rhyme. 
Now, were I haughty -cultural in my natur, 

I 'd pray that rot might seize such common- 
tatur ; 



160 to . 

But as I write for neither fame nor pelf, 
I claim the right to criticize myself. 

For all your sneering critics, small or big, 
I have respect as for the learned pig : 

Many a one, who through his stupid Epic 
whines, 

Had wiser been to stop at the first thirteen lines. 



161 



JEALOUSY. 



One winter's eve, so doth this story go, 

(If true or false none save the Spinsters 

know,) 

Three Spinsters, to beguile their loneliness, 

Sat down to read the history of " Queen 

Bess." 

They ranted o'er poor Mary's grievous 

wrongs; 

They snuffed the candle, and they 

jammed the tongs 
11 



162 JEALOUSY. 



Between the bars of the insensate grate, 
To exhaust their superfluity of hate. 
At last, becoming perfectly subdued, 

They pardoned e'en the " soubriquet " of 
« good," 
Sneered at her manly virtues, called her 
" Bloomer," 
And really broached a vein of dried-up 
humor, 
Sat, like three vital parchments, side by side, 
Laughing at their own wit until they 
cried. 
And thus they might, could, would, or 
should have done, 
But something suddenly disturbed their 
fun. 
The rash historian styled her " Virgin Queen"! 
This roused anew . their ire; this stirred 
their spleen. 



JEALOUSY. 163 



They had endured all but the final touch, 

Had almost pardoned ; but this was too much. 
In an unguarded moment, they, forsooth, 

Urged on by passion (at the expense of truth), 
Swore each, " By those inseparable twins of 

Siam! 
" Queen Bess ? No more a virgin was Queen 
Bess than I am ! " 



164 



THE WARNING 



Battle is waging ! Sin is the foe. 

Rests it with thee if thou win it or no : 
Fight it thou must. Gird for the strife ! 

'T is humanity's portion, the errand of life. 

Bind on thine armor ! Stand, and be true ! 

Stand by the faithful though they be the few. 
Lay down thy fears when thou liftest thy sword ; 

When thou art faltering, think of thy Lord ! 



THE WARNING. 165 



Doubt not! 'tis weakness. Hope ! it is strength. 
Pray ! and thy foe thou shalt conquer at 
length. 
Follow thy soul ! It shall lead thee aright, 
From error, through darkness, to wisdom and 
light! 

Boldly meet trial ! Count not the loss. 

Think of thy Master, his sufferings, his cross ; 
Humbly proclaim the dictation of Faith ; 

Calmly await the decision of Death. 



166 



EGOTISM OF THE LETTER R. 



I dwell in the forest, deserted and lone, 
Yet kings must allow me a part of their 
throne. 
My favor is courted ; for I have the means, 
By mere absence, to change all their friends 
into fiends ! 

Revolutions may come, and adversities lower 
On political states, still I 'm ever in power ; 

In the centre of earth, I inhabit the air ; 
The leader in revels, am constant in prayer. 



EGOTISM OF THE LETTER R. 167 

I 'm never in sadness, though alway in sorrow; 

No part of to-day, am one fourth of to-morrow ; 
In your frolics for aye, never mingle in joys ; 

In riots unceasing, retire from noise. 

I dwell with romance, tho' I vanish from fiction ; 
No sage, yield my part to the prophet's pre- 
diction ; 
To rapture essential, I fly from delight ; 

And the dweller in darkness, ne'er habit with 
night. 

Never known among plants, yet in each fragrant 
flower ; 
Not an instant of time, at the close of each 
hour ; 
For aye in your power, though out of your view, 
Forming part of your pleasure and misery 
too. 



168 EGOTISM OF THE LETTER R. 



In the brook's tiny ripple, Niagara's roar, — 
In the crest of the breaker that folds to the 
shore ; 
With the sweet serenade, and in discord's rude 
jar, 
The war-shouting clarion, the love-tuned 
guitar. 

In the sunrise of Life, in the darkness of Death ; 

With the Summer's warm breeze, in the 
Winter's chill breath ; 
For ever in right, still as oft in the wrong ; 

And though living in harmony, dying in song. 



169 



APOTHEOSIS. 



Thou model Statesman! sacrificing self 
Upon the altar of thy country's good, — 

Hating corruption, and despising pelf, — 
Yet how misconstrued, how misunderstood ! 

A martyr to thy patriotic zeal, 

" Without desire for office," or for spoils, — 
Desiring nothing save thy country's weal, 

" Conscience " alone encouraging thy toils. 



170 APOTHEOSIS. 



Thy " personal wishes dreading to forego," 
Thou view'st with horror that forensic strife, 

Which must disturb the quiet, even flow 
Of " ideas cherished from thine earliest 
life." 

No viperous malignity is thine ; 

No malice tinges aught thy lips impart ; 
Sweet charity doth shed her ray divine 

On every issue from thy noble heart. 

They know thee not who think thou wouldst 
aspire, 

"With wild ambition's feverish wings, to fly ; 
Thy spiritual longings bear thee higher 

Than the base promptings of the pronoun I ! 

Retiring, modest, motive none hast thou 
Which to that " higher law" doth not refer, 



APOTHEOSIS. 171 



To whose dictation all alike must bow, 
Each for himself the just interpreter! 

Now " serius in codum redeas ! " 

Freely translated, may the world unborn 

View thee, as thou thyself dost view, the star 
Which heraldeth Millennium's glorious 



172 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 



In eighteen hundred thirty-nine, 

Great Britain came to draw a line 

On our Northeastern border. 
And drew it at so u fash " a rate, 

"We swore the compass was n't straight, 

But sadly out of order. 

Now Johnny never stopped to think 
How very subtile was the link 
'Twixt friendship and dissension. 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 173 



He ordered out a hireling band, 

Thinking to " squat " upon the land, 
And 'stablish his pretension. 

At this Old " Maine " a " posse " sent, 
With legal views, and good intent, 
Hinting, " We think you are wrong, Sir. 

We '11 therefore keep our bounds, d 'ye see, 
Until the higher < powers that be ' 
Say where we do belong, Sir." 



Then Johnny began to fret and fume, 
Like a ten-million power-loom, 
A little out of gearing ; 
Vowed by " Quebec and Waterloo " 
(Not " Bunker Hill," that would 'nt do) 
He ne'er would be dictated to, 
Nor would he grant a hearing. 



174 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 

He took our Sheriff, head and tail, 
And locked him up in Frederick jail, 
To ruminate a little. 

Swift as a flash ! to light there spring, 
Of war tools, almost everything, 
Drums, tenor, bass, and kettle. 

Fifers, who never fifed before, 
Fife, fife, until their lips are sore, 
And then attempt to whistle. 

E'en Patriotism goes so far, 

That little boys scream out " huzza ! " 
And pigs begin to bristle ! 

Most furious resolutions pass, 

That cannon, pewter, lead, and brass 
Be scoured and put in order. 

Words, tempest-stirred, begin to rise, 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 175 

With something like a " D — n your eyes, 
You can't chalk out our border ! " 

The Legislature of the State, 

Convened, in feverish debate, 

" Resolves it is invaded " ! 
The Sheriffs injuries to atone, 

They must make captures three for one, 

And them treat as him they did. 

Johnny now turns his Red-coats out, — 
Mars Hill is changed to a redoubt 
In the " twinkling of your e'en." 

Lord Pompous mounts his sodger cap, 
Pretending that he longs to rap 
The Yankees for the Queen. 

But Yankee lads are bold and true ! 
" Backed up " by Yankee-doodle-doo, 



176 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 

They overflow with " gloria." 
So to the border quick they went, 
Shouting, " God save our President! 
And the (?) take Victoria ! " 

When matters had advanced thus far, 
And Asses still were braying war, 
Old Common Sense, quite nettled, 

Said, " Wait a wee, let 's understand 
The title to this bit of land ; 
Then, when that point is settled, 

" If Britain's wrong, yet will not yield, 
Gird on your arms, by flood and field, 
As your sires have done before you. 

Invincible shall be your might, 

W T ith freemen battling for the right, 
And Freedom's banner o'er you ! " 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 177 

The whole thing seemed to flash at once 
On all the world. The veriest dunce 
Said Common Sense is right. " For 

Until the wise ones have found out 
What all this hubbub is about, 
The De'il is there to fight for." 



12 



178 



WAKE FROM THY SLUMBERS! 



A SERENADE. 



Wake from thy slumbers ! Music is stealing, 
Plaintive and sad, 'mid the murmuring trees. 
Wake! the sweet flowers of the night are un- 
sealing 
Their lips to the wooing breeze. 
Love breathes in music : 
List to the low Serenade ! 

Open thy lattice ! The young moon has given 
Her sorrowing smile to the world ; 

No cloud to o'ershadow her pathway in heaven, 
Not a wave by the languid breeze curled. 



WAKE FROM THY SLUMBERS ! 179 

Open thy lattice, Love ! 
Hark! 't is for thee, only thee ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! May these votive numbers 

Be to thy dreams as the dew to the rose ; 
May visions of Eden be inwoven with thy 
slumbers, 
And angels watch o'er thy repose. 
Sleep, lady, sleep ! 
Hushed is the low Serenade ! 

The moon has gone down in the shadowy west; 
The echo has died, like a wave on the shore. 
O would I were music, to soothe thee to rest, 
To have thus my influence sweetly confest! 
But, alas ! I must gaze and adore. 
Lady, farewell ! 
Music may woo thee alone! 



180 



EPIGRAM 



TO A PAPER-MAKING FRIEND, WHO COMPLAINED OF THE 
HIGH PRICE OF JUNK ! 



The Spring is opening fresh and green, 
The wild-bird carols in the air ; 

Yet what to thee the sylvan scene, 
If junk, dear junk, be wanting there? 

The frogs upon the river's edge, 

The tortoise on the old tree's trunk, 

Before they dive among the sedge, 
Satirically murmur, " Junk ! " 



EPIGRAM. 181 



I mourn with thee, sincerely mourn, 
My paper-making, junkless friend ; 

Sure mortal man ne'er trod this earth 
More worthy of a good rope's-end ! 



182 



THE GORED HUNTER. 



The beautiful simplicity of the school of poetry 
which I have attempted respectfully to imitate in " The 
Gored Hunter," has often struck me forcibly, while 
undergoing the perusal of many of 's com- 
positions. Who can resist, for instance, the stern, 
uncompromising integrity, and regard for truth, where 
the narrator, in his description of the person of the 
hunter (stanza second), says : 

" I measured only with my eye, 
And therefore am not sure " 1 

As the description of the hunter's dress and pecu- 
liar appearance proceeds, so plain and unimaginative 
is it, that a child may comprehend it as easily as he 
would a bowl of milk and water, or the last edition 
of . 

This, I consider, should be the true standard of 



THE GORED HUNTER. v 183 

poesy. Instead of floating on the wings of Fancy, 
in the region of rainbow and star, — holding tran- 
scendental interviews with " music, moonlight, love, 
and flowers," the Muse should depend, for the inter- 
est she may awaken, upon the most common inci- 
dents of every-day life. 

In lieu of dipping her pencil in the pollen of the 
wild-flower, and her pen in mountain-dew. she should 
select a quill from some matronly goose, and a bot- 
tle of writing-fluid from " Maynard and Noyes." 
As an emblem (to aid her throes for inspiration), her 
fountain, the inkstand, should represent, not Petrarch's 
demoralizing device, the sensual and soul-destroying 
Cupid, but a correct representation of a beefsteak 
and pancakes ! 

This latter emblem would exert manifold whole- 
some influences over the poet. In the first place, it 
would inevitably remind him of his mortal inevita- 
bility, by suggesting to him that he must eat to live, 
and therefore cannot be spiritual wholly. 

Secondly, it is a practical tableau, suggestive of 
the agricultural interest and the enormous price of 
flour. In this way, indirectly, operating as a check 
upon his physical extravagance, and thus naturally 
enough controlling his mental profusion, by hinting 



184 THE GORED HUNTER. 



to him the propriety of economy in his ideas. To 
any one familiar with the physiological fact of the 
intimate connection between the mental and physical, 
this corollary must be perfectly satisfactory. 



THE HUNTER'S RESIDENCE. 

Within a mountain's rugged wilds 

(As rugged as could be), 
With heart just like a little child's, 

A hunter lived, you see. 

HIS STATURE. 

This hunter-man was six feet high, 
Perhaps an inch or more ; — » 

I measured only with my eye. 
And therefore am not sure. 

DETAIL OP FEATURES, ETC. 

His face was long, and brown, and thin, 
His eye was gray and small ; 



THE GORED HUNTER. 185 



I know not if he had a chin, — 
He never shaved at all! 

HIS ECCENTRICITY. 

For why ? This ancient hunter-man 

In ignorance did grope ; 
A razor he did never see, 

He would have eaten soap ! 

HIS TOILET. 

His cap was made of tiger's head 
(The skin-side was within), 

And just three inches from his nose 
The tiger's teeth did grin. 

MORE TOILET. 

His coat, it was of buffalo : 
The tail hung down behind, 

Save when the breeze did furious blow, 
Then flirted with the wind. 



186 THE GORED HUNTER. 

MORE TOILET. 

His pants and waistcoat were of bear, 
This quaint eccentric stager, — 

Astronomers have christened him 
" Terrestrial Ursa Major " / 

HIS COMPANION. 

A hound he had, this hunter had, 
A hound as white as snow ; 

Unto the woods, in company, 
Full daily did they go. 

HIS CAUTION. 

Around his neck a bugle-horn 
This hunter-man would fling, 

And (lest he might the bugle lose) 
He tied it with a string. 

THE KIND OF STRING. 

The string, it was a sinew strong 
From out a killed deer 



THE GORED HUNTER. 187 



Which he had shot. Can't say how long; 
It may have been a year. 

HIS SYSTEM. 

His wont it was, as I have said, 

Full daily out to go, 
(With his white hound in company,) 

For deer or buffalo. 

DEVOTION TO THE CHASE. 

The woods did echo every day 

The bugle's thrilling sound, 
The hound was ne'er without the man, 

The man without the hound. 

MORTALITY SUGGESTED. 

But nature is a feeble thing, 

However strong it be, 
And e'en the stalworth hunter-man 

To Death must bow the knee. 



188 THE GORED HUNTER. 

MORTALITY PROVED. 

One day, as he a hunting was, 
(I 've said that twice before,) 

A wounded buffalo, full mad, 
Attacked, and did him gore. 

HIS LONELY CONDITION. 

No friendly voice to breathe a prayer, - 

No fifty * on each eye, — 
He wrapped him in his shroud of hair, 

And laid him down to die. 

THE MYSTERY. 

What thoughts did agitate his breast, 

As dying there he lay, 
The hunter-man himself knew best, 

And he did never say. 



* A transcendental allusion to the extravagant custom of 
placing half-dollars on the eyelids. 



THE GORED HUNTER. 189 



THE EXPLANATION. 

When we assert he nothing said. 
We mean no one did hear him: 

'Twas some time after he was dead, 
Before a soul came near him. 



MORAL COURAGE. 

But this we know. The hunter took 

His bugle from his side, 
And, " clapping" it up to his mouth, 

He blew it till he died. 



THE GHOST. 

Upon that anniversary, 

(So saith his friend, McDougle,) 
The spectre of the hunter-man 

Doth come with hound and bugle! 



190 THE GORED HUNTER. 

And the desolate midnight woods are stirred, 
as the awful chorus there is heard, 

Of roaring bulls, and hunter's groans, — the 
rattling of bleaching bones, — 

And that unearthly, fearful sound, the howling 
of a starving hound. 



191 



TO 



Life is quite Gothic. Don't you think so, 
Mary? 
Particularly on a moonlight night, in June. 
Objects, the most familiar, oddly vary 

'Neath those pale beams. Like a wild harp, 
in tune, 
The heart goes dancing to its own mad measure, 
And times flies by unreckoned. Who could 
hear 



192 to . 

The clock's dull warning, when the Siren, 
Pleasure, 
Was breathing dreamy nonsense in his ear? 
I may be an exception to the rule 

Which governs careful plodders, but I 
could n't 
(Proving myself a sentimental fool). 

Thus Cupid took the reins, as reason would 
n't. 
Delicious theme! one might write years upon it, 
But fourteen lines just constitute a sonnet. 



193 



TO MY STEEL PEN. 



My unassuming " Perryan," 

I venerate thee much ; 
So prompt art thou at my command, 
So firm and steady in the hand, 

Yet pliant to the touch. 

Still more I prize thee, that, although 

A constant service lending, 
Thou toilest on from day to day, 

13 



194 



TO MY STEEL PEN. 



And, seize upon thee when I may, 
Thou ne'er requirest mending. 

i 

" Old fogie clerks " awhile may sneer, 

Calling thee innovation ; 
Yet naught they say can harm thy weal : 
Armed to the teeth, with points of steel, 

Thou guard'st thy reputation ! 

Quill-drivers still may scoff at thee: 

A fig for their abuse ! 
Tell them, though " Goosey's " noisy clack 
Once saved Imperial Rome from sack, 

Greater, "thou sav'st the goose " ! 

Be thou to me a friend, in need ; 

A monitor and guide, 
When thought would roam without control, 



TO MY STEEL PEN. 195 



And barter dignity of soul 
For vanity and pride. 

If I should ever be induced, 

To hold thee such a course, 
Seize thou my traitorous hand, and shake it; 
Blot every letter, as I make it ; 
Keep hinting me until I take it ; 

But, check me, e'en bv force ! 



196 



STARS AND FLOWERS. 



Stars, which in the voiceless air 

Twinkle brightly ! 
While this speck of toil and care 
Dreameth, nightly, 
Glowing messengers are ye of love, 
Beacon-fires, to invoke our gaze above ! 

Stars! they tell me ye are worlds : 
Is it true ? 



STARS AND FLOWERS. 197 

Does this sordid spot appear 
Luminous to you ? 
Do you watch thus pensively for our birth in 

heaven ? 
Do we seem to you to twinkle every Summer's 
even ? 

Tell us, gentle Star ! Reveal 

What our souls would know : 
We have need of holier influence 
Here below. 
Solve the mystery : we should be more angelic 

far, 
Couldst thou prove it to be true, gentle Star ! 

Flowers, of thousand varied dyes, 

Delicately dight, 
Wherein the Queen Fairy lies 

Through the dewy night, — 



198 STARS AND FLOWERS. 

Each a gorgeous paradise for the bee, 

And the phantom humming-bird's treasury, — 

Flowers, to me how oft ye seem 

(Fancy blended) 
Fragments of a seraph's dream, 
Heaven-descended ; 
Painted thoughts from spheres unknown, never 

spoken; 
Fragrant apotheoses of young hearts broken. 

Stars ! ye have been thought, by some, 

Angel's eyes, 
Gazing on their earthly home 
From the skies. 
Stay ! and tremble where ye are, in those 

brilliant bowers : 
Pale would grow your purer fires in this world 
of ours. 



STARS AND FLOWERS. 199 



Stars ! unnumbered, numberless, 

Shining brightly now ; 
Beautiful as when ye first 
Sparkled on Night's brow ; 
Moving on, in majesty, through the ceaseless 

years, 
Circling to the chime harmonious of the 
spheres ; — 

Flowers! hiding in the untrodden wood, 

Or flaunting in saloon ; 
Sleeping 'neath a gilded tent, 
Or smiled on by the moon ; 
Precious, if ye bloom and fade on the far hill- 
side, 
Or upon the silken tress of the blushing bride ; 

None can comprehend the whole 
Of your meaning. 



200 STARS AND FLOWERS. 

No ! the most inspired soul 

Is but gleaning. 

Star! in the night-air blooming; Flower! 

i 

shining in the sod ; — 
Ye are poetic magnets, ever drawing us to 
God! 



201 



S ONNET TO 



A RESPONSE TO " AIRS FROM PANDEMONIUM"; WHICH 
WAS A REPLY TO MY " SONNET TO THE DIV'L." 

Dear 't was d — sh kind of you 

To act as Satan's private secretary. 

So "brusque," and promptly, you re- 
sponded too, 
You must be intimate ; — we may add 
very. 
Much do we fear, judging by these revealings, 
That, actuated by the best intention, 

Infernally we 've trifled with your feelings. 



202 SONNET TO 



Pardon ! we crave. And here would 
proudly mention, 
Should Congress need an Embassy to 
Ten thousand friends would gladly recom- 
mend you. 
No one could represent us there so well ! 
They would rejoice to see, as we to 
send you. 
If you should go, as bearer of despatches, 
Tell Lucifer we 're almost out of matches ! 



203 



THE FIRST FLY, — AND THE MORAL. 



Good morrow, harbinger of Spring! 

Why need you keep up such a strumming? 
You 'd better fold your shivering wing, 

And stop that hypocritic humming. 

You '11 suffer many a cold day yet, 

When April clouds the sun have hidden. 

Your eyes look dull, your feet are wet ; 
Go back ! and sleep till you are bidden. 



204 THE FIRST FLY, 

There 's not a fly, save you, has dared 
To peep from out his hiding-place ; 

And we could very well have spared 
Your solemn phiz and chilly grace. 

Poor thing! it makes me sad to see 
You thus each ray of sunshine seizing. 

Rubbing your hands, as if in glee, 
Forgetting that I heard you sneezing. 

Courage, my friend ! Regret were vain. 

Philosophize, until it 's warmer, 
And thus the coming year may gain 

A wholesome lesson from the former. 

When, standing round the glass's brink, 
Your jolly Summer friends you see, 

How cheap you '11 feel whene'er they drink 
" The Spring of eighteen fifty-three ! " 



AND THE MORAL. 205 

I 



There's many a man, like that poor fly, 
Whose whole existence has been cursed 

By that same foolish vanity, 
A mad ambition to be first. 



206 



THE LOVER TO HIS BOUQUET. 



'T is said that flowers can talk as well 
As lovers can, or better; — 

That Flora makes each scented bell 
To represent a letter. 

Then go, thou blest interpreter ! 

Speak for me, bright " bouquet," 
And whisper low in Mary's ear 

On this her natal day. 



THE LOVER TO HIS BOUQUET. 207 



Speed on your happy embassy, 
Freighted with precious lore. 

On each of you is Cupid's seal; 
Fly, sweet Charges d'Amour! 

Tell her the love I fain would tell ; 

Bless her for those stolen hours ; 
And pray her not to break the spell 

Which binds us now, sweet flowers. 

Oh ! when she folds you to her breast, 

Be redolent of me ; 
Lightly upon that Eden rest, 

As starlight on the sea. 

Twine ye amid her dark brown hair, 
Clasp ye those silken tresses ; 

Ye cannot make her brow more fair, 
With your gay summer dresses. 



208 THE LOVER TO HIS BOUQUET. 

Mingle, with hers, your scented sighs, — 
Wreathe ye her dreams by night ; 

Or wake her with a soft surprise. 
Haste, Love's pure satellite ! 

Breathe low the thought I fain would tell ; 

Bless her for those stolen hours : 
And pray her not to break the spell 

Which binds us now, sweet flowers! 



209 



GENTLY! GENTLY! 



Gently ! gently ! Shouldst thou see 
Something which disturbeth thee, 
Treat it not disdainfully ! 

Thou mayst have misunderstood. 
With thine own unhappy mood, 
That thou seest may be imbued. 
Gently ! gently ! 

Gently ! gently ! Never fear. 

What though discord shock thine ear 

14 



210 gently! gently! 

'T is to be expected here. 
In thy soul a Harp doth lie, 

Fraught with Heaven's own melody 
Try its soothing harmony. 
Gently ! gently ! 

Gently ! gently ! To thy taste 

Much shall seem impure, unchaste ; 

Yet determine not in haste. 
Oft the palate may be crude 

And in fault, and not the food. 

Thy decision may be rude. 
Gently! gently! 



211 



LINE S 

ON BRACKETT'S GROUP, " THE SHIPWRECKED MOTHER AND 
CHILD." 

Still faithful to thy trust ! 

Still clinging, with that fond, undying love, 
To the frail dust 

Consigned thee from above ! 

The mighty Spirit of the Gale 

Bade navies shattered lie ; 
Yet severed not those links so frail, 

Broke not that silken tie. 



212 LINES. 



Closer, and closer, press that lifeless form 

To thy cold, pulseless heart ! 
Vainly would strive the elemental storm 

That golden chain to part. 

Mother! — the mightiness of that soft name 

No words express ; 
The ocean could not quench that holy flame 

Of lambent tenderness. 

" God, to the gentle lamb, 

The wind doth temper in sweet harmony" ; 
And sure I am 

Angels are watching for thy child and thee! 

Beautiful emblem! how dost thou control 
(As 't were a human picture there) 

The holiest emotions of the soul! 
Inspired, marble prayer! 



213 



WHAT'S FAME? 



Upon Cunaxa's silent field, 

Broken, the war-car lies ; 
And swinging from its carved wheel, 
Regardless of the scythe of steel, 
The spider doth his web unreel 

Beneath the quiet skies. 

Pulseless is now that countless host, 
Which reaped Death's harvest-plain. 



214 WHAT 'S FAME? 



Their splendor is a doubtful boast, — 
A lighthouse on a desert coast ; 
The heroes are but phantoms, tost 
Upon the historic main. 

As something mythical we read, 

Upon the dusky page, 
Of lofty thought, and daring deeds, — 
Of armor proof, and barbed steeds, — 
And trophies, now but faded weeds 

Of the Homeric age! 

Thus, every coming age shall deem 

The records of the past 
But leaves from an enthusiast's dream, 
So insignificant shall seem 
Each tiny thought, each puny scheme, 

Once deemed so vast! 



215 



E'en now, in visions, we may see 

Strange people stand, 
(Not worshipping, as worship we, 
Mere pioneers in Liberty, 
But more exalted and more free,) 
Chanting some new philosophy, 

To them more grand! 



216 



ARE YOU A « CONNOISSEUR " IN LOVE ? 



Strolling one Summer's afternoon, 

('T was sultry rather,) 
A sweet, voluptuous day in June, 

Young rose-bud weather ; — 

Alone? O no! half fainting, on my arm 

Leant a fair vision. 
I said, not meaning any harm, 

This is Elysian ! 



ARE YOU A " CONNOISSEUR " IN LOVE ? 217 

Alluding to the Pastoral, of course, — 

Flower, cloud, and sky, — 
And to the river sparkling by. 
My words had in them no peculiar force ; 

Why then that sigh ? 

'T was evident a mystery of life 

Had crossed my way. 
What right had I to dream of that word, Wife ? 

What could I say? 

We loitered by that river's wooded shore, 

('T was wooded then,) 
'T will wear the Eden semblance which it wore, 

Never again! 

Knew we not what was said, our thought 
revealing ; 
Crept over me a numbness. 



218 ARE YOU A "CONNOISSEUR" IN LOVE*? 

My voice deserted me. Then came a feeling 
Of dreamy dumbness. 

Spoke we not. Understood we still the more. 

Without advice, 
We launched our bark, from that romantic 
shore, 

For Paradise ! 

And here we are ! Nor look we with regret 

Back to those hours. 
Together talk we of that greenwood yet, 

Still scent we those wild-flowers. 



219 



THE CHALLENGE 



Would you your love with mine compare? 

I could write sonnets by the ream, 
To prove to you how much more fair 

Is the dear idol of my dream ! 

* 

Her dark hair shades a brow all light ; 

Her voice is like a saint's guitar ; 
Her step is free as mountain sprite; 

Her eye is soft as twilight star ! 



220 THE CHALLENGE. 



Were I a bee, no scented flower 
Could tempt me from her rosy lip. 

Through each intoxicating hour, 
My feast ambrosial would I sip. 

O, were I but that " Satin Basque " ! 

I 'd clasp her tightly all the day ; 
No other boon my heart would ask, 

Unless — I mean — that is to say, — 

Her heart o'erflows with tenderness; 

Her soul, with sentiment and song; 
Her laugh is like a wild-bird's note, 

Echoing the leafy woods among. 

V 

Compare not, then, your love with mine; 

My Muse has an exhaustless theme. 
Beauty and Wit and Song combine 

To form the idol of my dream ! 



221 



A VALENTINE 



This Valentine, selected from a number of the 
same genus, is published at the earnest request of a 
committee of little counsellors, who have been un- 
ceremoniously peeping into my loose papers. 

I feel assured that my little fairy friend, to whom 
it is addressed, will pardon the doubtful immortality 
with which she is invested by my (hitherto unknown) 
Muse, as she is so certain of a saintly immortality in 
a higher and a purer sphere than this. 



TO LITTLE MAD DIE. 

My pale, pure, chaste anemone, 
Unveil those soft, dark eyes ! 



222 TO LITTLE MADDIE. 

I fain would dream of Paradise, 
And Eden's moonlit skies. 

You cannot read, sweet Valentine, 
You cannot even speak ; 
Your loving mother's soothing words 
To your tiny ears are Greek. 

But she '11 read it you, Maddie, 
"While you look up, and crow ; 
Which means you understand it all ; 
Dear Cupid told me so. 

Send back some little sign, darling, 
If nothing but " Ah goo ! " 
'T will keep my heart from wandering 
Away from love and you. 

Should Mamma, with love so wary, 
Ask, " Who dare to send you this ? " 



TO LITTLE MADDIE. 223 

"Why, of course, it was a fairy, 
And he sealed it with a kiss. 

I saw him when he penned it, 
With a moonbeam dipped in dew; 
I but copied it, and send it, 
As his Valentine, to you. 



224 



RE VEEIES 



There are hours, delicious hours, 
When this world doth seem 
Like a fairy isle of flowers 
Floating in a dream ; 
When life's shadow, and its tear, 
Seem, like morning mist, 
Heavenward to disappear, 
By the sunbeam kissed. 



REVERIES. 225 



We hear joyous, gladsome voices 

Echoing all day long ; 
And the wildered sense rejoices 
In their happy song. 
Time's sad reapers, one by one, 

With their emblems hoary, 
Whisper, as each passes on, 
Some romantic story. 



Words are senseless then. The Muse, 

Wrapt in deep devotion, 
Her poetic power doth lose 
In her wild emotion. 

Thoughts arise too clear for words, 

To the spirit given. 
Music breathes, whose sister chords 
Have their place in heaven. 

15 



226 REVERIES. 

There 's a language holier far 

Than was ever spoken, 
When the rays from some pure star, 

Through the leaves in-broken, 
Tell us of that fairer clime 

Past the blue depth o'er us, 
Where the flower-wreathed wheels of Time 

Move to angel chorus ! 



Come to me, sweet reveries! 

Come, at day's decline, 
When all sordid feeling sleeps 

In this heart of mine. 
Let the wings of your impressions 

Fan the soul's repose, 
As the west wind cools and freshens 

The exhausted rose. 



227 



"GOD SAVE THE COMMONWEALTH!" 

No. II. 

The half-grown lawyer, with his mind as green 

As that big satchel, borne each weary day 
O'er dusty pavement, — oftentimes, I ween, 

Containing luncheon purchased on the way ; 
(More easy of digestion, to the swain, 

Of mental food or physical, the latter ; 
His stomach is more active than his brain, 

The use of one makes leaner, 't other 
fatter ;) — 



228 " GOD SAVE THE COMMONWEALTH ! " 

The half-grown lawyer, with his thoughts as 
crude, 
As rough and corky, as a turnip raw, 
Doth prate, in awful majesty of mood, 

About the length and breadth and depth of 
law. 
" Doubteth the ruling of the learned judge," — 
" Taketh exception to the power of court," — 
Meets a grave question with a Free Soil 
"Fudge!" 
And boldly says, " Commissioners are 
bought ! " 

Not yet content, he wanders forth amain, 
A roving maniac; innocent and weak, 

Too frail and harmless to require a chain, 
Of would-be terribles a monstrous freak ! 

Makes any statements, heedless of the fact, — 
Strutting and fretting like a jealous rooster ; — 



" GOD SAVE THE COMMONWEALTH ! " 229 

Defends himself before he is attacked, 

And all to astonish the quiet town of Wor- 
cester! 

Ignores to-day what yesterday he said, 

(For smouldering now are all his brimstone 
fires,) 

Swearing, by all the hair upon his head, 
" That the reporters are a pack of liars! " 

From such weak slanderers, crazy or in health, 

It needs no " God" to save the Commonwealth ! 



230 



I DREAMED THAT I WAS YOUNG AGAIN ! 



I dreamed that I was young again ! 

O blissful dream ! The world before me ! 
Once more to tread youth's violet plain, 
"Cupid" and "Psyche" fluttering o'er me! 
Love led me to his tempting bowers, 
And, pointing with his arrow back, 
Through smiles and tears, and withered 
flowers, 
Which overarched life's trodden track, 
Says, " Whisper me what you will do, — 
Your journey bright has just begun ; 



I DREAMED THAT I WAS YOUNG AGAIN ! 231 

Shall you the selfsame course pursue ? 
Will your heart beat as it hath done ? " 

Then (with a confidential " Harry ! 

I think I 've heard you had a wife ? ") 
He says, " Confess now, would you marry, 
Could you live o'er again your life?" 
Assuming now a look demure, 

He feigned to be serenely thinking 
(Although I heard him laugh, I 'm sure, 
And once or twice I caught him wink- 
ing.) 

He bade me follow to a fount, 

Wherein was silver water shining, 
Near which, upon a mossy mount, 
Myriads of beauties lay reclining. 
When, lo ! as in a mirror bright, 

Upon that fount's clear surface shone, 



232 I DREAMED THAT I WAS YOUNG AGAIN ! 

The ghosts, in robes of stainless white, 
Of my flirtations. Forty-one ! 

" Be quick ! " says Love, " I may not stay 

While logically you determine. 
I 've many calls to make to-day ; 
You 're but to answer ' yea ' or 'nay,' 
I wait no prosy sermon." 

I trembled. In succession passed — 

O sweet review ! — each lovely face, 
And still the loveliest the last ; 
All wore that unpretending grace 
Of early hood. So brightly gleamed 

Visions of darlings past away, 
That, by some fairy wand, I seemed 
Transformed into a live bouquet ! 

O, who could long continue sane, 
With such a witching pageantry 



Dancing the " Redowa" in his brain ! 

Alas ! it proved too much for me. 
Remembering that Cupid waited, 

I stole a glance at every one, 
Stammered, and blushed, and hesitated. 

" Dear Love!" said I. Echo, " He 's gone!" 

Then from those angels, at the font, 

Came such provoking peals of laughter, 

And merry shouts, depend upon 't, 
I '11 never dream of youth hereafter. 



234 



THE 'SEWING-BIRD TO HIS TYRANT. 



Work away ! work away ! 

Never ceasing, never idle ; 
Are you working, lady gay, 

For some fairy's gaudy bridal ? 

I delight to see you work. 

And would never more complain, 
But for that confounded jerk, — 

Heavens! there it comes again! 



THE SEWING-BIRD TO HIS TYRANT. 235 

Here I sit, from day to day, 

With my useless wings outspread, 

Holding your embroidery, 
Only wishing I were dead. 

Can't you leave your task awhile? 

Toil will then be all the sweeter. 
Look up! long enough to smile ; 

There 's a dear, bewitching creetur! 

I should like to sing to you, 

But of course I am not able, 
Fastened, by this horrid screw, 

To your little table. 

Should I try a song to sing, 

It might pass for Greek or Latin. 

Would you think of warbling 

When your mouth was stuffed with satin? 



236 THE SEWING-BIKD TO HIS TYRANT. 

Cruel tyrant! work away! 

Never heed your bird's complaint. 
What care you, my lady gay, 

Though I pine, and droop, and faint. 

Not a drop of dew or food, — 
Not a single moment's rest, — 

In one place for ever screwed, 
Am I not unblest ? 

Prithee, leave your task awhile ! 

Toil will then be far the sweeter. 
Look up ! long enough to smile ; 

There 's a dear — despotic creetur ! 



237 



PROGRESS. — A VISION. 



We sometimes have queer visions. A quaint 
form 

Came to me in my sleep ; and questioned 
thus : — 
" Know'st thou the meaning of a cycle? 'T is 

A method in one course continued on, 
Until the selfsame course again begins." 

A quiet revolution, creeping up 
So silently, with noiseless, dainty steps, 

That it o'ertakes us ere we are aware. 



238 PROGRESS. A VISION. 

In fashion's fripperies, literature, and art, 

It manifests itself. What seemed to you, 
A few short by-gone years, grotesque, and 
" gauche," — 

The height of literary Quakerdom, — 
Shall be the commonly accepted style. 

The time is coming, — nay, already come ! — 
When genius dare not lisp in common sense ; 

When mental pickaxes shall be required, 
To dig from its obscurity the thought 

Most simple. When the wildest German 
"myth" 
(Ghost of a night of boisterous revelry) 

Shall seem a fact beside our modern 
" myths " ! 
The author's sole endeavor then must be 

To veil the sense, by shuffling the words 
Into chaotic masses, (as we give 

Children a box of ill-assorted blocks, 



PROGRESS. —A VISION. 239 

Without a map, bidding them build a house!) 
Presenting a kaleidoscope of thoughts, 

Twined in the most unreadable of shapes ; 
So that the reader who may comprehend 

Fairly may boast that he is author too. 
Its mystic influence shall reach the schools, 

Where now the child says, " Two and two 
make four." 
He will not say that two and two make four, 

But thus : " Two units, junctually combined, 
With combined units junctually, other two, 

In multiple embrace closely cojunct, 
Cojunctly form, in embrace multiple, 

A double duplex, — or a four times one ! " 
" Horrors ! " said I, " if that 's your march of 

mind, 
Genius may lead the van. I '11 stay behind ! " 
I woke. My youngest boy was asking me 
Some questions in the Double Rule of Three ! 



240 



SONNET. — TO ZEPHYRUS. 



West- Wind, — the tips of whose soft wings 
aerial 
Languidly fan the drowsy twilight sea, 
Until, awaking from its dream imperial, 

Dimpling, it breaks into an ecstasy 
Of sparkling joy, — forth from thine azure 
chamber, 
Lighted by Hesperus, at eve thou wingest, 
And, throwing over thee thy veil of amber, 



SONNET. TO ZEPHYRUS. 241 

Love's language to the waking Wood- 
Nymphs singest. 
Thy lambent pinions, amorous and free, 

Clasp the slight zone of the unblushing lass, 
Or brush her dewy lip. All welcome thee. 

The modest wild-flower hiding in the grass, 
The way-side rose, and the proud forest-tree, 

Exhale sweet benisons whene'er you pass. 



16 



242 



THE BIRTH OF MUSIC. 



Twilight nestles in Paradise. Young stars 
In the blue depth are glistening. Fragrant 

flowers, 
Which through the rosy day had bent them 

down 
'Neath the warm glances of the ardent sun, 
Retiring, modest, from his eager gaze, 
Languidly rouse ; wooed by the cool, moist 

breath 



THE BIRTH OF MUSIC. 243 

Of Zephyrus. The tops of the tall trees 
Still hold the memory of receding light ; 
While the fair landscape mellows into shade. 
Twilight in Eden! in its perfectness, 
Inclosing Nature in a sainted dream, 
Ere the transgression dark had intervened, 
'Tvvixt man and immortality on earth. 
Forth from her bower luxurious, beauteous 

Eve, 
Chaste, uncontaminate, as when the smile 
Of God first charmed her into beauty, roved 
Among those gardens of perennial bloom, 
Inhaling their sweet being. Delicate, 
As holiest breath from new-created angel, came 
The whisper of the gentle wind to her. 
How fair earth must have been! How passing 

fair, 
Trod by seraphic natures only ! As she 

roved, 



244 THE BIRTH OF MUSIC. 

She heard low murmurings; delicious tones, 
Inwoven with the soft, voluptuous breeze ; 
Filling her soul with unknown ecstasy. 
Entranced, she listened. Still, out-murmuring 

low, 
Came wafted to her, on the scented air, 
Those sounds mysterious. 'T was a little band 
Of angels, uttering their evening psalm, — 
Their twilight orison. Then questioned Eve, 
Of her pure soul, if the same power were 

given 
To her as to those angels whispering there? 
Lifting her untried voice, to imitate 
Those heavenly strains, out-flowed in song, 
Echoing amid those starlit bowers, the first 
Delicious tones of new-born Harmony. 
Then knelt she down; and, while the tears 

of joy 
Still sparkled on her soft, transparent lid, 



THE BIRTH OF MUSIC. 245 

Like dew upon the lily of the vale, 
Her soul, responding to this new delight, 
In strain of adoration chanted forth 
The sweet Te Deum of her gratitude. 



246 



"ERIN GO BRAGH!" 

MELODRAMATIC 

Beside a pile of dust and chips, 
The sleeping sawyer lay ; 

His pipe still clinging to his lips, 
That short brown pipe of clay ; - 

His shirt unbuttoned at the throat, 
His hat drawn o'er his eyes ; 

The greasy pocket of his coat 
McAdamized with flies. 



" ERIN GO BRAGH ! " 247 

See you that mouth's convulsive twitch? 

St. Vitus sends a smile ! 
He dhrames he 's nestling in a ditch. 

In Imerald's swate isle. 

He dhrames he 's wid his mother, 

In the swale below the rig; 
Wid one arr'm around his brother, 

And one around the pig ! 

O, wake him not ! Let him enjoy- 
That vision pure and sweet. 

The soft, black mud of childhood 
Is clinging to his feet ! 

He sees all he left, at parting, 

(With some twelve or fifteen more,) 

Scrabbling for the cold "purtatis" 
On the dear old, nasty floor; — 



248 " ERIN GO BRAGH ! " 

Sees his father, lenient Lictor, 

Quietly enjoy the sight ; 
And applaud the laurelled victor 

In the vegetable fight ! 

* * * * 

Now he lays about him gayly, 

Battling with the yielding air, 
Whacking with ideal shillelagh 

Many a skull at rustic fair. 

Now he takes a short vacation ; — 
Let the fancied conqueror rest! 

See the well-earned perspiration 
Trickle down his heaving breast ! 

Sudden starting, now you see'm stir; 

Wakes he ! for upon the road, 
Shouts the rough, remorseless teamster, 

" Paddy ! here 's another load ! " 



" ERIN GO BRAGH ! " 249 



Harder now the work before him ; — 
Memory sad is working too : 

Erin's sky is arching o'er him 

With its soft, transparent blue ; — 

Voices sweet as flowing waters, 
Though untutored by the school, 

Greetings warm from those wild daughters 
Never taught to love by rule. 

Trembles in his eye a tear-drop ; — 
Man and soul have met in strife. 

To the cold world 't is a mere drop, — 
'T is to him a prayer of life! 

Such the doom of dreamings earthful ; 

When most bright to be o'ercast ; 
Grave or gay, sedate or mirthful, 
End in dust and tears at last. 



250 



SONNET. — THOUGHT. 



Echo of Silence ! whose responsive power 

All can appreciate, and yet none control ; 
Whose coming consecrates the lonely hour, 

Making a Sabbath of the pensive soul; — 
Voice of the Spirit ! at whose mild decree, 

From mental chambers rousing the ideal, 
The sentient wanders through infinity, 

Divested of the sordid and the real ; — 
Mysterious gift ! to whose vast power we owe 



SONNET. THOUGHT. 251 

All of life's essence ; unto whom is given 
To lift us from our instincts here below, 

And sublimate us for our flight to heaven ; — 
My mind out-lead from unreflecting night, 

To thy pure sphere of intellectual light ! 



252 



TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



A happy morn to thee ! I know 

Thou canst not comprehend 
This benison I send to thee, 

My joyous little friend ! 
Yet my fond heart to thee would speak 

The impulse which it feels, 
For Time has now another year 

Entangled in his wheels. 



TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY. 253 

Your tiny feet have just essayed 

A self-dependent walk, 
And mother says that you have made 

Your first attempt at talk. 
What care we, though the tempest blow, 

Or winter's mantle fall ? 
Thy smile is mightier than the blast, — 

'T is summer in our hall ! 



Yet there intrudeth On my joy 

A shadow even now ; 
Death claims thee, darling, as his own. 

Beneath that sunny brow, 
By Heaven's kindly veil concealed, 

Sleeps thy mysterious fate : 
Through God's great mercy unrevealed, 

Or life were desolate. 



254 TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

Two of life's fleeting years, dear girl, 

Two of thy years, have flown ; 
And rapidly, though silently, 

Another floweth on. 
On ! rapidly, though silently, 

Each coming year shall pass, 
Till thou art forced to mark, as I, 

The ebbings of the glass. 



My darling February Rose ! 

Lifting thy fragile head 
Above the winter's storms and snows, 

While other flowers lie dead, — 
God keep thee in thine innocence! 

When thy last year has flown, 
May the recording angel breathe 

Thy name before His throne. 



255 



SONNET TO THE MOON. 



Inconstant Luna ! pale night-walker! whence 

is, 
Concerning thee, this sentimental bluster? 
Thou light-bestower under false pretences ! 
The dull earth polishing with borrowed lustre; 
Nocturnal gambler! fortune's fickle daughter! 
Hater of sunshine ! 'luminated owl ! 
Reduced, at intervals, to thy last quarter, 
For ever doomed with Erebus to prowl ! 



256 SONNET TO THE MOON. 

Dyspeptic poets call thee Lover's lamp, 
Thy small thin crescent Cupid's golden bark; 
I here baptize thee Lantern of the Scamp! 
Who waits, like thee, for evening shadows dark, 
Stealthily creepeth through the silent night, 
And sneaketh home at the approach of light! 



257 



THE TRUE CREED 



Let your life be sordid, real; 

Count your loftier thoughts as dreams ; 

Listen not to the ideal ; 

Go for 't is, and not for seems. 

Stoop not on your march sublime, 
The wild-flower to cull, which springs 
In the dusty road of Time ; 
Scorn such sentimental things ! 

17 



258 THE TRUE CREED. 

O'er the masses tramp and travel ; 
To your human nature yield ; 
Scruples are but sand and gravel, 
Choking up ambition's field. 

Thus advancing, head erect, 

Let your mission be to forage ; 

If you 're very circumspect, 

You may steal your neighbor's porridge. 

V 

Let your motto be " Suspicion " ! 
Lacking this, all things are lacked. 
Honesty is mere tradition, 
Number one the only fact. 

Retrospection leave behind ; 
Thank the world for what it is. 
Regrets but your freedom bind ; 
They are self-made miseries. 



THE TRUE CREED. 259 

Feeling must be petrified ; 
Heart must be inclosed in tin ; 
Mammon must be glorified, 
Conscience hammered very thin. 

Cheat! the six days of the week ; 
" Settle up," one day in seven ; 
Should you hear your axles squeak, 
Grease with hypocritic leaven. 

Never shirk a contribution ; 

Take a new bill, which will rattle : 

Very little absolution 

Arms you to renew the battle. 

Do it! lest the warden carp : 
Recollect there 's but one Sunday 
In the week, and if you 're sharp, 
You can "make it up" on Monday. 



260 THE TRUE CREED. 

With your bank-book for your pope, 
For your ritual the stocks, 
Undisturbed shall be your hope ; 
It is founded upon "rocks"! 



261 



A THOUGHT OR TWO. 



As thirsty travellers, let us stoop and drink 
Refreshing draught from Nature's road-side 

lymph, 
With varied flowers springing at the brink ; 
Blessing, believingly, the unseen Nymph, 

Whose mystic wand, by God's direction, guides 
The stream transparent thro' its devious flow, 
From the pure fountain, on the mountain-sides, 
Into its vase of emerald below. 



262 A THOUGHT OR TWO. 

'T is pleasant, thus along life's way-side rest- 
ing* 
Our dusty banner for a moment furled, 

To listen to the inner voice protesting 
Against the faults and follies of the world. 

Useful it is to stop our bark a moment, 
Shaking the water from the dripping oar; 
And, noiseless drifting, listen to the comment 
Of worldlings working on the busy shore. 

We shall be purer when we thus have hearkened 
Unto their senseless strivings. Then the soul 
Lighteth her lamp in chambers cold and 

darkened ; 
Then dare we question of the earth control. 

Then shall we turn the streamlet from the mill, 
Whose ceaseless din doth weary and annoy us; 



A THOUGHT OR TWO. 263 

Bidding its stony, gritty pulse be still, 
While the freed stream goes on its mission 
joyous. 

Like to a blessed revelation flowing, 

The unprisoned stream shall greet the grateful 

banks, 
Reviving all within its influence growing, 
Which, waking, nod, and wave their scented 

thanks. 

If he who makes one blade of grass to grow, 
Which grew not else, not all in vain hath striven, 
O happier he who, in this vale of woe, 
Hath nurtured flowers which only bloom in 
heaven. 



264 



"I STILL LIVE!" 



" I still live ! " Let the worldling, invidious, 

interpret 
Those words of the Statesman, and warp as 

he will ; 
Let him question the motive, and carp at the 

meaning, 
The same innate beauty investeth them still. 

How simple their meaning when fairly con- 
sidered, 
How touching and tender, how apt to the time ! 



I STILL LIVE ! " 265 



To those who were lingering mournfully near 

him 
Their very simplicity stamps* them sublime ! 

No hope for this earth to those words is imputed, 
No wish ever more life's dull march to resume ; 
His labors are finished, his pilgrimage over ; 
No dread of the future, no fear of the tomb. 

How sadly they tolled on the ear of the listener! 
How gently they spoke of the earnest, deep love, 
Which cherished the dear ones of earth while 

he lingered, 
Yet looked to a holier reunion above ! 

No vision is here of unsated ambition, 
"Which questions of fate the control to the last; 
No wish the arena of life to re-enter ; 
But this prayerful idea, ere the spirit had past. 



266 " I STILL LIVE ! " 

u I still live ! " God hath spared me once more 

in his mercy, 
To take a farewell of earth's vanishing things ; 
To grasp once again the warm hands of my 

kindred, 
Ere the angel of death folds me under his 

wings. 

" I still live " ! God be thanked for his manifold 

bounties ! 
" The cattle and sheep, drive them up to the 

door";* 
I would take one last look at their innocent 

faces, 
Would list to their lowing and bleating once 

more. 

* One of the last requests of the late Daniel Webster. 



" I STILL LIVE ! " 267 

I see, for the last time, God's smile in the 

sunshine ; 
His warning I hear in the Autumn wind's 

moan. 
My Summer is over, my harvest is ready ; 
The cold Earth is silently waiting her own. 

"I still live!" Let the worldling, invidious, 

interpret 
Those words of the Statesman, and warp as 

he will ; 
Let him question the motive, and carp at the 

meaning, 
The same innate beauty investeth them still. 



268 



VALE. 



Good by ! my frail, ideal craft, 
Unfurl and trim your sail ! 
Be grateful for the Summer breeze, — 
Be ready for the gale! 

Farewell! farewell! the anchor 's weighed ; 
I 've launched you from the shore, 
And from my cozy fireside nook, 
Shall watch your voyage o'er 



VALE. 269 

The ocean of your doubtful fate. 
For Pilot charter Hope ! 
There 's no insurance on your freight, 
Nor on the tiniest rope. 

Your first-mate, Courage, stout and stanch, 

Will prove as true as steel! 

He stood godfather at the launch, 

And he baptized the keel ! 

Trust in him. When the sky 's o'ercast, 

When fainting spirits fail, 

He '11 " nail your colors to the mast," 

Greeting the adverse gale ! 

i 

Rest on him with a firm belief, 
When storm and tempest frown. 
You have no heavy sails to reef, 
And you 're too light to drown. 



270 VALE. 



Then deprecate no pirate's lance, 
Sail boldly from the shore ; 
Though baffled once, again advance 
Challenge the wave once more. 



THE END. 



